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March 8, 2021 / barton smock

some revised some left alone 2016,17,18



You won’t
drink it
but ask
for a glass
of milk.


That bone you broke
while swimming.



my roommate’s father lives with a puking man I call future in a skipped year rewatching a tv show about what poor people film



Summer was for sexting and for watering the scarecrow’s spine. Say it with me this was not that summer. As a ghost might surprise the mother and go to salt, a doll might remember its teeth.



Dropped on its head for saying footprint, the baby begins its work of collecting only those sounds it can scare. Its father mothers otherness as one who watches a film to make the world worse. Its brother hunchback and sister backstroke are viewed as two stomachs waiting for hunger to dry. Because my mouth is empty, I want to kiss you to the sound of god counting footfalls on a mountain path. For one, I have never been completely covered in bruises. Also, I was in the spotlight when my mother was asked to describe a sponge. Instead, she identified the break in the letter where a father changed pens and childhood as the longing of Eve.


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