Linoleum

Ryan had pictures of his mom
he would show

his friends, all of us
lost in the maze of sixth grade, reaching up


into the air of girls, and his mom
in a cheetah bra, laid back on the plastic


covering of the couch, her arms
folded across her body,


her hands
covering her crotch, her mouth


in a smile
and her eyes, I suppose, looking


into the eyes
of a man she had met and liked, a man


she had taken home, or a friend had
taken it for her, or she made her son take the pictures.


Ryan had a small stack of them
which he kept in a sock with yellow stripes on it.
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