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Wednesday, April 18, 2018

Be Still

We're not asking, but he poem craves
expansion. Or the poet does. A poet craves a poem,
mostly, and all the things that anyone craves.
I think about death and teaching
a tiny human-in-becoming how I can't always
be there. I'm here and it's terrible, sometimes,
and sometimes disastrous anticipation is wrong.
Or the anticipation is right but disaster
is wrong. Or it's not. The limits of law relative
to gender equity and transformation, for example.
You're beautiful and kind: How does your
lover open the door, chop an onion, recite
their social security number? How do they
manage their files? I am hostile when half
asleep, never loving. We touch feet under
an electric blanket. It's cold. It's April.

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