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Remember you hungry

Jen Currin

I left you on a doorstep. Rang
the bell and ran

Midnight trips
to the bathroom—my face
has disappeared from the mirror.

Rain washes the white city.
I’ve spent a lot of time
outside my skin.


Spring more sincere/your braids
of the moon.


I’ll do research
on my father’s guitar.
Forty birthdays, thirty nights.

I like beauty as much as the next,
a party where your beg cigarettes—

You are fortunate—
biographers remember
your breast size,

acknowledge the incongruity
of speech and action.


I offered you a light at the bus stop.
You laughed at the power structure,
combed out your hair.

In what month
your rude remark?

I didn’t want to burden,
said, There are beings
helping us.

You took it in
with your sea-eyes
but offered no vulnerabilities
in return.

Jen Currin

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