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Ok, it’s sunny, otherworldly, skin-tight

where we’re flabby and clouded over, pining away

under layers of jealousy, detachment, the compost heap

of the shucked and dismissed. Out of the bad deeds,

screeches in the arboretum, the wronged person

who circles the rotaries, the infidel

who torments her clitoris, the young man

who discovers he’s nameless,

muttering when he should be moaning, shattering

the window of opportunity because—I forget where

I was going with this—perhaps the baffling

cataclysmic lesions that scar us invisibly—

but I suspect, deep down, we’re a good people,

easily humbled: we implore, fill with worry,

we try to sing to loved ones, shadow

their wishes, color their hair as they fly

into the great nothing: no more, that’s it.

But we can only hold the shell of them,

get on our knees and scrub away

the whole heavy saga. In another world,

people would know exactly how bad we are,

how we seize a dance floor, how we shake

and sweat profusely, how we hum a few bars

through the dead spots, and since we have no idea

what comes next, we set the homestead

ablaze. We bargain, we finagle,

we comb the hair on the corpses, their beautiful hair.

from True FaithFind it in the library

Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2012
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.

Published in Ira Sadoff Poems

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