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Dancing on Bubble Wrap

Stan Sanvel Rubin

A series of transparent moons 

explodes under my feet 


like sequenced gunshots, 

the packaging of the gift 


I pulled from yet another cardboard box

spread out like galaxies. 


Joy is my territory 

despite my clumsiness. 


I dance from each bubble to the next

anticipating the pop and little


puff of breath, the solo

note of exhalation.


Why not say, like popcorn 

or like small balloons bursting? 


Everything is full of gunshots now,

even the celebration of something 


so welcome, so unexpected.

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