Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsFall 2018  Vol. 17 No. 2
an online journal of literature and the arts
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We are at a feast which doesn’t love us
after Tomas Tranströmer

Nobody will clip her nails. They are made of the same things as her bones. Strong stuff. Not like the rest of her. You need the tool shaped like the jaws of a snapping turtle and both of your hands. Press harder. This is not hard enough.

It mustn’t be sad. Not when the room is red and the Bibles are stacked on the end table. Every pill she needs is there for her, even some she won’t. You’ll never know the difference. They chisel letters and numbers into them and sometimes make you cut them in half. The colors only mean that they couldn’t think of anything else to do for you.

Today the plate holds half of a sandwich. Sometimes it’s eggs. You’ll make whatever’s left in the kitchen. Yesterday it might have been pizza topped with black olives. Tomorrow you won’t know what you will have left. The plates are empty. Sometime later, the plate will come back full.  

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