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Weekend
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| ALAN
SOLDOFSKY
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Published in Red Rock Review - Issue 13, Spring 2003
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light is left on over the table. One rose in a plastic vase shriveled as a red star. We have brought the history of our feelings here, the withheld words. We've come to bear all, to see nothing. We have permission. The earth spins without noticing. It's always the same bullshit, she says. The bombings, the petty wars. The city is ringed by artillery. We scavenge for what we can find; a rough crust, green meat we would at another time go out of our way to avoid. The clouds a mass of spittle.
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are learning the laws of supply and demand. There is need; there is always need. She opens her arms and I enter. The craters still warm on the streets where the shells have fallen. Our words are rubble. We pick around jagged entrails of metal. We'll grasp any splinter, anything smoke has shined. We live without a thread, without a pattern. When we lie down, we are flat as flags, an unclaimed country where the language has shattered. Where we could almost imagine the names for love. |
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