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My Nothings


ISSUE:  Spring 2018


You don’t dress your mouth
in my blouse. My body crinkled

like a denim dress pinned
to a clothesline. I’d be lying if I said

there’s no wind here, no sun shaping
me ’til I’m filled by a body or falling

from a hanger. There’s nothing tragic
except what you know of light.

What you might show of sadness.
You want to be folded: for two long sleeves

to meet kissing-like. To be finished
with me in this particular way.

You want to be caught like birthday cake
scooped from the linoleum floor

and spilled like a bank of pennies
or silt. This is the part where you

have to say it because
I’m a coward—though I’d kill

the daddy longlegs and let you
sleep on my pillow for hours, my hair

in your mouth, could my voice soothe
all I can’t say.

 

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