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Poem #33


I fell from a dock in the summer, split my hand open like a ripened fig, blood drip-dropping to ruddy the waves while I gulped down salty red, I swam to shore, hand raised above my head, looking for my father in a crowd of churchgoers who didn’t stop to help. He flipped burgers, sizzling in sun, didn’t kiss my boo-boo, told me to keep the wound in water, even though it was dirty so close to shore. You’ll be fine. Stop crying. No stitches required. First a puckered pink now a white line crossed over by hatchings like a seatbelt, as if a scar could be strapped into one’s self, as if it had anywhere to go in the first place.


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