Tokyo AllergyNicole Steinberg
The needle will find you—sink past sweet shoulder to prevent you sneezing, surrounded by flowers. You sympathize with feathers frightened by a hand that marries harm with secret intervals of sleep; suspicious of marriage, antidotes, the magic position that slides hip against hip. In the mornings, I'm your bird, wings tucked against the shrill of your alarm: a needlepoint, a busy day of pecking heads into skulls, bodies into bodies.
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