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Thursday, April 12, 2018

Tax Day



No one is allowed to touch me, the night is a property tax
on my good afternoon, a hot wind from the glossary tax.

When my blood ran cold, the parentheses hugging my balance
like the mandibles of a lily leaf beetle, my tearful scholarly tax.

I bought coffee. I sold my book. I missed a flight across the
country, my dear friend. I drank wine. My life is a mockery tax.

At the end of each year, I amass many papers. They tell me I
owe and I owe. I fill out forms, I itemize my calligraphy tax.

Last winter I could afford to be so hungry I was at the edge of a
faint. When I took mussels into my body, I forced up its brothy tax.

When I counted my dollars and rechecked my checkings, I knew
to be plural, one must hustle. I freelanced my priorities untaxed.

I ghost-wrote. I proofread on the benefits of coconut oil. I copy-
edited a manuscript on intermittent fasting. My body disorderly taxed.

Late capitalism suggests such a scourge will end. I teach, I launder
my clothes. I eat. I purge. I teach. I purge. I launder our atrocity tax.

The first word I learned was holocaust. God was supposedly in
my heart. Shahid, our exiles opened a folder meant for a lottery tax.

Today I jumped as a bird thudded my window, convinced it still had
sky to claim. When it dropped, I filled in my name, my brokenly tax.

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