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His face blown up into flakes encircling

My son, a dead house in which

He is sniffing glue through his glass

Blown skull, to flip off her moral septum

This bell the doctor stapled to your lung

Will protect my child who has stolen, so to

Stave off oral sepsis, our bell-steepled angel may

Remit above the bed from which my son was

Taken by the pent-up oral surgeon,

For fewer have been sold

I could lean on his holy

To ascend after being lowered

I know of a mountain where you go

The backfields he tends

with another

palm in earth white seed, she

doesn’t want to see the blade of

grass woven round his neck

by way of another’s


folded in the dirt

The window comes and goes

Scathed voice the face invisible

I mistake my son’s rash for water

His legs float up between the night and

My face in the mirror

A boy’s ball in the marsh floats above

Trees shot through the dirt car frame

The shade of her eyes

Skin untangled

Someone is being asked to leave on a horse

Like the river to be easy

CASSIE VOGEL is a writer and artist living in Rhode Island.

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