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    day 12

    two ears both black sometimes hang down never up tail like a spring twisted on itself goggles for eyes never blink too close if you close your eyes you hear the sounds of monsters, wicked forest creatures in his breath stand far away to see the rolls of flesh like the counter of a bakery flush full of goods in the morning rush

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    day 11

    my eyes are closed stiff like a body on television I should rise up stumble towards the cracked inside of myself those pieces in the distance have only been buried just so I can still see them

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    day 10

    I eat every word until I L U V U floats to the top he doesn’t notice instead, he reads the part of the paper I hate where dollar signs float old white men frown talking of percentages losses, gains the white crackle of paper keeps the silence I leave my bowl on the table, he doesn’t look up

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    day 9

    They say put down as though she’s a stone that sinks rather than skips or jumps when she breathes it’s a bell, a toll a furnace with no light, only smoke we do it at home, where her tail wags her eyes brighten as we all gather around she can’t understand why we’re not happy, why our eyes blur and our stomachs burn, why our hands tremble when we pet her wiry fur, careful of the lumps that have grown to consume her after, we carry her to the car, to the place where her body will become ash rather than flesh, all wondering at how heavy such a small…

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    Day 8

    I found an old bottle once brown and distressed all silver broken like a mirror spent too long in acid inside was a drawing in charcoal not ink of a mermaid with melting legs her breasts covered with sails I sat on the beach writing on the back of that drawing writing of how her eyes glowed, her hair flowed, her wrists crossed just so back in the bottle it went while I waited on the sand nothing came back though I thought I heard an echo of dolphins laughing

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    Day 7

    We bought a child once a girl with hair the color of ash she spoke no English she spoke nothing at all Her mother, she sold out of an old truck near the turnpike where officers waited to catch speeding sedans She made the most delicious food tamales, hot and fresh wrapped liked Christmas presents The girl hid behind her long skirt pausing to peek at us when we spoke our language like the babbling of birds The mother said here, you take her I cannot afford this life We tried for a few weeks the little girl did not like our food our soft bed our stairs that creaked…

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    morning poem

    It’s not the waking that bothers me though the tips of my toes ache that crack in my skull throbs, remembering perhaps glass and steel pumping water over my skin fire no, it’s not the waking that bothers me it’s the waiting while I look down at phantom limbs my mouth blowing and blowing waiting for the nurse to show aglow in white resplendent in her crown of gauze we feeling better today? is perhaps the worst sentence in the history of the world where there is no we only me and the parts I have lost

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    Day 5: Dickinson

    breaking is not furtive it is a quick pause in entropy slow slow the cracks appear organized decay working against that battered defense of the cobweb wrapped wound no skin splits no mouth opens to spirit a quiet word break, falling open eggshells slipping, holding together what is left   words from Crumbling is not an instant’s Act (1010) BY EMILY DICKINSON

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    Day 4: What I See

    just after dawn I wake when you still sleep your mouth open, those not so soft snores like the horn of some ancient hunting deity I wonder at how the light catches those freckles on your cheeks your nose those small dots you told me were stars on our first date they say in Alaska women wander in the dark, their stars extinguish one by one by one I would ask that you stay here with me instead of wandering I like waking up next to the galaxy of you

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    Day 3: No entry

    theme; fourteener   I have changed my name to that of the flower which smells of ghosts and old cobwebbed ceilings in creak laden houses from my arms veins sprout like vines searching for sunlight where there is none, my windows are drawn closed, the shutters shuddering against winds and rain that pound my house down, searching for that one crack, that one breach, that one hidden pinhole allowing entry