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Emily Dickinson


willing to say hello but

so many averted eyes winding around her

greeting her fathers and brothers instead

her vision becomes trained as well

upon light and growth

even the oxygen-poor words of others

which she recycles like the leafy creature she is

rich breathable lines lay on the page

folded in for safe keeping









Boltanski


Yes, I am remembered: even with the rock of my womb cave growing,

as a chubby face I’ve lied myself away from for years,

with light bulb messes in a spotlight-seamed darkness.


I am remembered in the same-faced five faces of siblings and cousins,

the smashed mirror patterns of patchwork,

the peppered melody of a violin out of tune.


I am remembered like the strobing daguerreotype of a ghost,

the pluming cripple of scaffolding,

the mermaid tail of rumor.


Do you remember me from Dijon?

I was you.