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Monday, April 16, 2018

Tell me you’ve run past that stretch of highway for the past two weeks and not thought of me.
            ~ Don Draper

animal insistence turned my velvet body to leathery grit arms & legs clammy skin a breath off corporeal temperature shivering dog calm trudge pant & blunt I ate mercury as a child broken thermometers bright pools on the bedroom floor gums not yet black not yet turned a grand tolling in third grade a nun brought her most treasure oh treasured to school two foot long thermometer awarded her for a lifetime of forcing thermometers into childrens’ rectums she removed it from a velvet lined case passed it with Jesus care one child to the next & I dropped it shattered mercury globs silver animals wriggling toward a fairy-tale center I scooped them into my mouth I am about to die or win a great award a shivering dog inside me my brother is a marathon runner I am afraid of losing him I’d write you a letter if I thought it was okay you don’t ever have to write back my life swings onto the gridded macadam as a woman in the driver's seat turns smiles & waves she holds a cigarette a bottle of gin & a gun

1 comment:

Ms. Moon said...

Another devastating poem, Rebecca. The image of the nun and the thermometer and the children and you...well.
I wish I could remove the great shivering dog for you. One way. Or another.