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I tap at the alphabet while a single deer
taps at the dirt beyond the brush
on the far side of the tree line.
She turns her back for me to fasten the rows of metal hooks. Why isn’t our small, tender freedom enough?
We stop doing dishes while
a mile unwinds
from the tree outside.
this is what I want you to to see:
leaves falling because it is too late for them not to
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
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.
Ever since your son brought you here, things have been different. He was crying when he dropped you off. You still don’t know why.
Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time
A reflection on a place that is inherently hostile to humans.
we drove on through
the blue seal of morning as the turbines
turned and winked out their hearts
Yes I am guilty, I’m guilty. A sin was desirable then.
Bring the dancer back to the stalks.
The new octopus at the children’s aquarium was named Athena, and as we waited for her to emerge, I thought of the almost-too-faint second line on the pregnancy test three days before.
You are strange, my mother said, dwelling on the past.
I’d never heard of anyone having a second baby right after the first one, but everything was so strange in those early days of motherhood that I just acted on instinct.
It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows?
Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.
This series is a response to a health diagnosis, trigeminal neuralgia and thoracic outlet syndrome, from a major mid-Atlantic hospital after a several year journey through chronic pain.
I like to think I’m also sprung,
released from the furnace knocks,
done with the heavy meat stews
and salty soups.
I am in Rite Aid buying ChapStick and diapers, when people start washing away in the rain.
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