| From FOR THE H IN GHOST by Julia Cohen... |
| Not the Fact of a Burning Forest but the Scent of the Burning A clear bottle with white liquid or a white bottle fat with bloody paper & the voyeur Something bad happens & I like its scent I said follow me to the black pasture reveal how to crunch grass which isn’t frozen so we can lasso whatever moves with our rubber-stamps so we can fertilize what sleeps below us so I stick my hand down your jeans & kill you like justice’s torn-out-jaw call anger the first political emotion Until he was four my brother spoke only one word: rooster until he reached the mailbox turns to his mother But what mail would come for me? The white bottle wobbled in its frame like something that could be your friend to drain the luxury pond I strap my goodbye-eyes on step back step closer step back :this is reckoning Look over the shoulder of your mother legroom flyleaf try to destabilize the center but the center glides below you like an angry child drifting under a frozen pond the smooth spleen moves when you move But I want to give you a new feeling one you can’t get rid of right away but in the end it’s just a white bottle I don’t believe that either my wooden knife I carve with the metal knife it’s hard to tuck yourself into bed so that the blanket folds above your shoulders |
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