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Infant’s Name: A
Delivery Date: August 1, 2002
Her brown eyes,
how a fig
the strands of your hair on the bathroom tiles aren’t sketching defeat. that’s you spitting disease in the face with another day you’ve woken up to.
I count my homes—
those of my scattered youth
the sanctuary of our young family
the intermittent rest stops
of apartments and vacations.
here is the sky in stop motion, flickering,
a still shot in monochrome
I suffer visions and many indignities
while looking for the Lobster
A reflection on a place that is inherently hostile to humans.
It all started with the curse of my tits. Women’s bodies are cursed. Everyone tries to look at them, everyone tries to ignore them.
Hitting up homes peopled by those with nothing much to lose was an easy score. The less you had, the less likely you were to defend it. But this home was different. Its residents had a lot to lose and the will to fight for it.
With great reluctance, I agree to meet a cousin for an outside lunch…
We drifted junk with a sledgehammer looking for juice. Sometimes the rage.
anger, like you can sink teeth into, candy apple
A tortured simper uncoils itself across my mouth as I open another bottle of Penis wine.
Adrienne Christian is a poet, writer, and fine art photographer.
and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub
at the Assisted Living Place
You let the yellow glow
from eye sockets. The building up the street
is burning faster and faster.
With my camera, I give and receive love.
There is so little left of the tomato plants.
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