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blame her. At funerals the booze is free. something, something, something …Recompense I’m like a mint without copper I just don’t make cents She told me to meet her at Clayton’s. Clay. Of course it was the only café in the area to have it’s own pottery. Mugs, tea plates, glazed in azure, yellow. From dust to childhood to stone-faced adults to dust. From clay to wheel to kiln to clay. Broken shards of pottery are cast into a terracotta ditch. Is the clay bed mortified? Do its bowels wrench like a human’s when a pre-rigor-mortis corpse is cast aside him? Or her. And there she entered. I needn’t have stood. My peripheries caught her red top step in from the summer blaze. She soon sat across from me and I was spared from a readjustment of head crystals. She spoke to me, and I listened. Her explanations of the night and her feelings touched me, but it was nothing I considered atypical-“You were racist to my nipples.” Until then. “Excuse me?” I gazed up, dazed up by her shift in tone. Perhaps I seemed like a space cadet. I was hoping she’d elaborate, but she confronted me with widened, expectant sclera. “I believe my phraseology was ‘your nipples are beautifully dark.’” Her left eyebrow popped up. It was cute, but it conveyed disapproval. My fingers caressed the rim of my sunglasses in lieu of

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Profile for The Round

The Round, Fall 2014: Issue XI  

Enjoy the eleventh issue of "The Round," a literary and visual arts magazine based at Brown University in Providence, RI.

The Round, Fall 2014: Issue XI  

Enjoy the eleventh issue of "The Round," a literary and visual arts magazine based at Brown University in Providence, RI.

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