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Saturday, April 1, 2017

SHOUTING INTO A PENCIL CASE

We would never know the snail’s name
No matter what she told us she only told stories

I stuck my hand down the hollow stump
and expect to find a hallway where the floor

is shiny and desks stick to the cleaning agent
How could it be hollow with so much moss

It was never a man who made me feel bad
about my body When we hold hands the voice says

the touch feels like praying I was the only one who saw
a paintbrush dip itself into the wet paint

and draw itself across the little piece of paper
I cut last week from a railroad sign

I am angry because of how much I love you
because of how much I worry the kind of worry

whose only reassurance between all the breaths
is the carrot red hair tied around two

of her grandmother’s paintings of a woman
in the chest orb city with underarm hair

Mine is the best my life is the best life
Along with these letters that’s what I offer


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