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Monday, March 30, 2015

=This room I never wake in=

In the wee hours
mom comes to my bedside
and pretends to wake me.

Downstairs my crazy uncle
is talking quietly
into the void.

Overnight, the kitchen table
turns a bright blue
and no one ever mentions 
cyanide poisoning.

She says: your father
is home.
He's okay.

She kisses me as if she's placing
postage on my forehead.

Deliver us from evil
they taught us to pray.

Then she leaves
behind a scent of baby powder 
and forest fires.

If I had a brother
he'd turned to ash by now.

In the upper corners
of the room
the vultures shrug 
in their shabby
second-hand coats
and lift off
one by one.

There's nothing they can do here.

It is the most
disappointing moment
of my life
to that point.

I will sleep for another thousand years.

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