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..:: CONTENTS ::..
   Volume IX, Issue I

..:: POETRY ::..


..:: PROSE ::..
..:: OTHER ::..

..:: ETC ::..
   Contributor's Notes

..:: ARCHIVES ::..
   Volume I, Issue I
   Volume I, Issue II
   Volume II, Issue I
   Volume II, Issue II
   Volume III, Issue I
   Volume III, Issue II
   Volume IV, Issue I
   Volume IV, Issue II
   Volume V, Issue I
   Volume V, Issue II
   Volume VI, Issue I
   Volume VI, Issue II
   Volume VII, Issue I
   Volume VII, Issue II
   Volume VIII, Issue I

 
Poetry


One Never Eats Four
Samantha Duncan

 

How would I discover — in play all along,
an additional functioning part, an erect,
homogeneous switch under my chaptered eyelid?

Would I weave a sweater for my mouth?
Gigabytes of inaugural speech pulses with
red foreheads and quarters govern from

hallway closets, overstuffed pies heat
the groundswell for level tangerine alarm,
under staircases ignorant of their use.

And should I pickle and can this applause
for an exhibit that will educate my grand-
children? Has there always been more metal

than flesh coming home? I look cameras
in the eye, knowing that's what ends it all,
not suspicious tardiness, not plentiful

food for everlasting recreation, or children
who can't read a book but know how
to light it on fire. Know all the words for that,

so their absent weapons question gains
before pregnant, watchful clouds. Blots of faith
on a newborn pepper group consciousness,

like a cancer of thought, while horizon subjects
the breeze to artless curls of my hair, bought
by an age of age, plenty paid in installments

that stays unfound, until the steel lilt heads
the lone breach, or I flutter my eyes and upend
the label maker in my brain all along, or, eventually.

 

 

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