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Fetish: Widow glass

Kate Schapira

Every misreading of the past is possible.

Invite the bird of spite to live in your mouth
among the flowers of your furniture,
the program not silence but versions, reiterations
with letters missing. What ears came to believe
fused, the creek’s heavy
liquids flow past the picture
toward home, to hardly
remember what she was like before.

Scratched roof and palate. Decals prevent collisions
saying, “I love you,” to a pane
cleaned by sleight of hand. Didn’t
she always? A slight
never. What is liquid if not contained, what thickens
to meet difficulty in swallowing
those feathers, another story. She, after he died,
we all agreed. Flaws through
which to view all the things you want
in your house. Brass rings above the window.

Kate Schapira

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