Sydney,
By Jamie Calloway-Hanauer Posted in Poetry on February 6, 2014 0 Comments 1 min read
Setting the Record Straight Previous Liszt We Forget Next

I never thought it was funny
when you told people to fuck off,
your fingers high in the air,
legs barely long enough
to reach the ground.

I knew you when
you were in your mother’s womb,
small and clean.

I tried to take you after she forgot
to come the third day
in a row,
but I found her

in a bar,
prolonged smoke break,
fresh hole in her arm.
She needed some time,
she said.

I wonder if you still live
off Cheerios and fumes.

We both cried
the day I picked dirt and makeup
from under your nails,

cried harder when I took the glitter off
and turned your hair
to taffy.
You flailed at the mirror-child;

I held tight and pretended
not to notice your bones, knit perfect
and known.
 


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