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On the road, the path reminds

her of her mother’s body (re-imagined).

Dress delineating the waist against her belly 

extending hand caressing her head, carefully.

In the kitchen, she cuts an apple in the middle

(to quiet her mind). The fruit creates echoes

of other fruits, thinking how to afflict her.

The flavor is sweet when masticated,

and it creates a line in the middle

of her forehead.

In the bus stop, she collects yellow numbers

printed as line 22, the yells that live inside

her body, in the intimacy of things one

should not look fixedly for too long:

death, sun, and a profoundly immoral tale.

A poem is made of residues that don’t fit

inside one single reality. Or would it be multiple?

Sometimes I have the impression that the other

and I are separated by hundreds of pieces

being remade at every instant.

Poem published in Gravel.