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  • The Unfolding
  • Megan Pinto (bio)

I let a boy lick my paper skin because he told meI was pretty. I let a man undress me, because he wouldn'tstop kissing me. I left my body at a party, and thenI left it again. A secret: sadness has no sound—not crying,just silence, like how at 5:00 a.m. I woke up in the middleof Brooklyn in the back of a cab, the driver watching me.

I learned to love with nobody watching—in a carpeted room,small, my bed in the corner, while outside tall trees blocked outa blinding sun. God moves in the laying on of hands. A childshivers in a church, her body wet with water. Then someoneholds her, warms her, blesses her. I miss Raleigh in the winter,

I miss Ohio when it rains. In college I would drive outinto the fields, down the empty highways, two lanes flaggedwith fences, the cows ambling, the sun setting, the sky growing pink.A secret: I let a man undress me because he wouldn't stop kissing me,and though I found him to be beautiful, my mind moved to the lightshifting among trees in the evening, the fields unfolding. [End Page 109]

Megan Pinto

Megan Pinto's poetry can be found or is forthcoming in Meridian, The Cortland Review, and Indiana Review. She has received scholarships from Bread Loaf and the Port Townsend Writer's Conference, and an Amy Award from Poets & Writers. She is a Playmakers Playwright at the Purple Rose Theatre Company, and holds an MFA in Poetry from Warren Wilson.



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