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Ruth Madievsky

Everywhere And Nowhere July is giving me the kind of look that makes me think it might throw something, might lift me up and leave me on a mountain where the air is thin as a thirty-gauge needle and makes my head feel like a balloon a kid is stuffing rocks into, and I have nothing new to say about helping my grandfather into a hospital gown, slipping the booties over his socks and telling the joke about how an anesthesiologist’s wife might not realize she’s being abused. Lately it feels like every joke I tell was less offensive in the original Russian, like every poem I write could get me arrested for public indecency. I’ve gotten good at being everywhere and nowhere at once, at constructing gods and invoking them the way a waitress might invoke a Caesar salad. My mind holds a brick until it becomes the brick, and I am constantly forgetting that my body owns me, not the other way around. I spend most days hoping for release but not knowing from what. What’s worse— the white noise inside the body or the quiet?

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