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Tokyo Allergy

Nicole Steinberg

The needle will find you—sink
past sweet shoulder to prevent you
sneezing, surrounded
by flowers. You sympathize with feathers
frightened by a hand that marries harm
with secret intervals of sleep;
suspicious of marriage,
antidotes, the magic
position that slides hip against hip.
In the mornings, I'm your bird,
wings tucked against
the shrill of your alarm: a needlepoint,
a busy day of pecking
heads into skulls,
bodies into bodies.

Nicole Steinberg

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