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72 Lovely Tonight I kissed my enemy on the cheek— I said, You’re beautiful, and meant it. All I could see was her loveliness— other nights, it was blocked by the sun. My first mother taught me to love the wide open by giving me away. My second mother showed me how to prop the body up/stay alive without help. The boyfriend who hit me—he forged the crossbeam of my new life. My sister taught me illusion, not to trust the window of what we want most— and me, arsonist, burning down the house of them/with me inside. The hated louts, the swine of my life/ my first demolition team— now my beloved architects. What do I do with these enemies, these inventors? Bury them whole? I’ll deal in parts instead. What do I say to them now: You’re lovely? I’ve come to revere the way you tendered the gallows tree: on each branch a body with no inside sun? Outside now: my night bird, my mockingbird calling another’s song and in my stumblings I am alive, nothing more— my night is a segmented heart/ my sun, the birdsong of day, I know nothing about. ...

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