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.
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