My uncle’s humped back sweats
like his other parts,
like the clean golden hair
on his arms and head.
On his thick neck.
It’s a dark circle that pools
as the afternoon gets hotter
against the coarse broadcloth of his shirt
and he leans to finish his work
troweling concrete, setting masonry,
so my aunt,
an articulate woman with bright eyes,
can wear linen.

:: Marc Petersen, This Is My Brother Talking (1998)

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