Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2012 v11n1
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We were holding each other at the punches,
he and I.                      At the skull-soft spaces,

the bruised hills of my spine—what he called love spots.
What I called my mouth-to-feed,

even after the electricity burned out.

After we couldn’t pay the bills
or the toll road to take us elsewhere

days spent numbering
thunder claps on our dark hands.

And the sparks—                     the trash fire
across the alley.  The dogs barking
at its orange warmth.

What even the rain couldn’t grow—

his shuttered birds or the shapes I shadow

on the walls.  Shadow for hours—
           —(What could we have done?)

There was a house we built around this.  

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