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The Lesson
What I grasp for,
I see now
in its resultant form.
From out
of my running stillness,
a brick-paved street appears.
A large white church,
a mass of drag queen brides spills out from its doors,
armed with machine guns,
each decorated with its own
floral garland— hyacinth,
white lily, hydrangea.
Love me, they say to one another.
Their demand so sincere,
and unanimous,
that it almost tears the blue and cloudless sky.
I can’t, they say to one another.
Because they can’t.
They are sobbing.
They let their bullets go.
The finest mist of blood.
Dead, their legs shrink
to half size.
Their gowns
flush brown,
and tailor into khaki pants.
They are little boys again. The pain
in their faces is
small, now.
As if they’ve been denied
a pizza slice, or a toy.
If nothing else, come lay
them out with me,
on the lawn in the center of the street.
I will grasp their weighty ankles,
you, their gleaming heads.
Island of Sorrow
Ask even if I know
how to guide a boat.
What slipped
foamy-lipped
over the ocean?
Nothing, nothing, old
sweat and wet
metal, embedded
in sand.
Clammed-swum
hand, celloswell
bloomed from my falling.
Katie Przybylski
Email: Katie Przybylski
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