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The only true event, 200_

Jill Beauchesne

I am driving in a lakebed/on a lakebed. The sound
on my radio/of my voice
a siren. The blare/“the end to all silence.” The minor,
sentimental chord/angina

the birth stuff blocks/clots up
in the throat. Hands ratchet, rat-like/bars. Until I reason/win over—

I can’t constrict
the malignancy/a headlight
on the two-way road. Sodden deer-like creature, caught,
I open the car door,
run/there is no fire/I have forgotten you,
and breath comes
shooting out after.

Abruptly, the rain. I am enclosed in some pang.

Jill Beauchesne

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