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Playlist of the Same
- University Press of Colorado
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16 THE BODY-HOLE The world is what we give away. There is no rest, only deprivation and surrender. What keeps me awake— a fetor, an effluence. Between my house and my neighbor’s, a deadened slick. Night after night, when she feels herself alone, most body, the waste-bucket sloshing onto the lawn. That she dumps it, her shit, all summer long. Her same sallow dress, the slick as it deepens, it spreads. Wheyfaced , how she looks from the window, as if she has been seized. What is love? What does love do? Empty you of ever wanting it to happen again. 17 GHOSTMEAT That she is departed and so named— the-one-who-got-away. Blood searches for its own pulse, grows ever hungrier as it quickens, what if, what if. Like the lilac, like the thrush, like the thing decomposing on the bed as I watch (the kitten succumbed to whatever killed it)— my own mother. What if. And in the morning the memory of her like some meat I get the taste of, get hold of, and will not let go. Though she walks behind me, feeds me, sends me off to school. What if. This is where I live but that is not my mother, those hands, [52.91.54.203] Project MUSE (2024-03-29 15:20 GMT) 18 that voice. And what remains— the kitten, the bed. What if. She is all the world is when all she is is apparitional, almost real or just enough. That reccurring dream. That vanishing. What if. She appears the same, herself but now someone else. Like the kitten that went to sleep and woke up dead. It only died once. Then again and again. ...