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    last day

    things I have broken fish first, the gold I overfed to accompany me second, the fighter who jumped from his cracked bowl during a fire when the water boiled faith which I earned during rides on Sunday school bus rides for oatmeal creme pie cookies trust in those taller older, those adults who always had answers-who always lied and lied and lied promises are made of delicate porcelin pots burnt, scraped misshapen from kitchen experiments hidden from a mother who rarely bothered to use them pipes coke cans glass pipes pens, tubes all crushed under sneakers evidence thrown away poker face lava lamp hurled at my sister, who’d torn a…

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    day 29

    my dog’s nose is too short I imagine he was bred that way to add humanity or maybe something like bling to a ring or how one would spell B.O.S.S. in diamonds on a plastic dixie cup his face is pushed together so he sneezes incessently as though he were allergic to himself he cannot see nor smell past himself, he pushes his nose against stone and glass unsatisfied with distance his nose really should be longer, perhaps the size of a small pencil or random stinkbug I would give it a two out of five, until an upgrade is available

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    day 28

    he talks of paths as though a ring can be a bridge as though a slap can be that left fork you never take he talks of bridges like tasks that must be completed one step, two step a slap for not playing hop-scotch along the way he talks of crossing always one way never looking behind never holding hands there are no road buddies there is empty air between us he talks of ending the light at the end maybe a tunnel maybe a hallway only the light dims with every pace I replace my shoes with bare feet walk instead onto the newly shorn grass just past that…

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    day 27

    hay(na)kus write- you letters you-never answer computers speak to my inner life books speak to my wondrous life those letters-you must lose them mothers are tipsy falling over things genuine never appears on our skin girls lips touch signs go up cake never too much-too little

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    day 26

    I have always enjoyed the taste of the exotic ripe plums red strawberries the blood red flesh of the orange the sweet tang of fresh wine pressed between the feet of small women in wooden barrells my mother she warned me to be careful some food is dangerous she said some food takes you places you never come back from I listened as any good daughter should yet when he showed me his palm carrying that seed I could not refuse I have tasted death I have tasted life both are bitter both are sweet

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    day 24

    did you see the shooting? the man-they say he had no arms he ran-the video caught it all stumbling-wounded antelope loping towards away-or home maybe just away there are arms holding guns tazers-hard to tell in the bright sunshine there is death no screams- only animal grunts-falls mournful howls they say- he had arms they say- he has none does it matter then?

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    day 23

    she sits for two hours watching that television show that ended an hour ago. sometimes she sighs as though moved by the actors or perhaps the stars all lit up. we’ve taken the toaster away. the stove burners. the microwave. she once tried to boil an egg in there. splattered like small animals under cars. we took her rocking chair. or Larry did. made it so she can’t rock or lift the feet up. she kept lifting and rocking until she’d knocked chips off the wall behind her. it’s mostly the accident. can’t blame a girl for the parts of herself that are missing. though when she throws her food…

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    day 22

    you can’t tell which kind of berry is good just by looking at it there are black plump spheres on prickle bushes past the fence where a dog guards them viciously but won’t eat them I want them like the mother in Rapunzel I want them in salads and drinks and raw juicy pulp somehow I think if I have them I might be cursed perhaps the dog is there as a warning I never liked those warnings always too tempting