Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2014  Vol. 13  No. 1
an online journal of literature and the arts
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Everyone Here Is a Tourist

Shipwreck and seaweed choking the tide. My anatomy,
undone as flotsam, tipping between

the hands of plate-white waves. Only ice. I wish I were
cold. When the pain was about the size

and color of a plum, I used a lot of positive self-talk.
I felt the water at my throat but I

coaxed it into smoke rings, coaxed those
into Hiram in May, which means,

essentially, daffodils. Pity I lost hold of that.
The papers said we’d make it

and I was drunk enough on hope to believe them.
The day I died I told you,

I might be ready. Ready or not. Was that a sin?
I told you, with a silver dollar

stopped over each eye, the horse-drawn shadows
have stopped circling

on the veranda. They stagger toward me now.  end  

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