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August 3, 2018 / barton smock

rabbit horns

a plastic doll with a human right hand distracts us from the parrot’s empty cage. we have been writing in unison instead of eating. our poverty is so advanced it keeps a fake diary and a real diary but hides them in the same spot.

I saw my youngest brother born. I saw his mouth. I thought he’d ripped.

the dark, the ocean. I have two reasons to believe god has not stopped creating. my anger has gone the way of the milkman. his doomed child with her piece of chalk.

it is childish how much time she thinks I have to touch everything in the store. I am slapped so hard I am sure the mirror’s memory is for show.

my father holds a cigarette above his head in a hotel shower. at home, my mother puts a clean shirt on the bed and jumps from her death.

I am secretly happy that you’ve taken an egg for each day of your life to a doll so doll can sleep. as your mother, I often follow a black ball of yarn into the lake of how you remember.

a male mime bites into a bar of soap…

her father is just as she imagines-

a man not making siren sounds pulled over by the man who is.

you will know the hoof of satan’s chosen deer by the way it glows when any female announces from the seat of a stilled tractor that she is pregnant. you will be the age of your mother’s baby bump, older than your father’s knife, and lit by the grape in god’s mouth.

I am in the saddest grocery waiting with my mother for the happiest bike repair to open.

dodgeball, no one sad.

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