languishes behind a screen.
She receives her pain.
I sleep, eat, the egg slides over the pan,
the flyers say WE ARE SLAVES TO THE CAPITALISTS
or they say CARPET STEAMED 4 LESS;
it’s almost Christmas.
The light is gone by six o’clock.
I force narcissus in a bowl of shallow rocks.
On channel three, a teary Miss America is planting kisses
on the small bald heads at the children’s cancer ward.
Across the street, my neighbor’s yard blinks:
Love rises
like a blister on the season.
---Ashley Capps
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