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best in show: poetry
APROPOS OF Mattea Falk your hands copper in my memory: my astonishment at your dislike for that song I love but then: the suspension between our hands our equal delight in the first cigarette of morning you and I joking through our mid-afternoon dawn – “to fight the habits of the body.” I fully expect to be changed upon witnessing the movement of so many. I admit your sex might be bad for me, in the scattering sense, my mind dizzy with the attempt to think like a body, my body having nothing, no ambition but obsolescence. Driving past the Burger King sign, blacked out enough to spell “Purge,” I tell you I want to accomplish rather than produce. You nod once, pull my hand to your belt. When the wet snow had left us, did you see? – the one sprig of magnolia alone on cement, its beetle-back gleam against that shroud, faded-lemonrind of the drive, and no magnolia tree there on the whole of that blanched street.
spring 2015
59