He detached from his bones
—a song, severed. I repeated
his melody over and over
The pages fell. I made
tea for his anger. I read.
He was left by the stoop,
haunted by his father.
I told him so. I was a
healer,
plugging in Christmas lights,
shooting elephants. I cracked.
“George Orwell was paper
needing ink.” I cracked
from the spine of the book.
Beautiful ligaments in summer
lilac, blurred and fragrant,
I cracked. Please don’t end.
I cracked. Please don’t end.
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