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I ask not to believe in fluorescence

Jill Beauchesne

The restaurant ceiling is wired and dripping.
The switchback staircase heads into your head.
Kick out. See how the light grottos on your chest?
Kick out. Turn it so you prickle, the side of your easiest shoulder bone.
Your eyes are splicing into forks and sodden dishrags.
Mark your stomach, splitting where you have eaten.
Mark your fingers, pasty and warm,
unreaching, unbinding, uneven shrubbery rows.
Stop it. I can’t see anything for this light.
Stop it. Turn it around, as slowly as possible,
squeeze it. All of the beige pieces, the way I re-remember,
squeeze it out, to just ahead of you. I smell rennet,
satin flavor, clay follicle. I can’t eat this. I am as much mine
Stop it. Kick it. We have ordered our meal
now how many seconds do I have to place you behind,
to cover your face, to cover my face, the way we are leaking
through our shirts, shiny white scars whistling.

Jill Beauchesne

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