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Betrayal of the Paper Machine

Amy King

Dreams a small child she hopes postpones
grown-up events, overfed-carpeted green and
strummer of stock exchange messages, deified.
A competitive lover plays along, tasting
of pudding, only sweeter, more pliable
than the one we ate in Germantown the year
a blizzard took over our sense of direction,
our sense of star-crossed antiquities,
our need to align murky constellations
with unhistoric natures, wherever
they mistake us. The profit-thin ghost
grows taller in blood-darkened soil,
grows blinder with sight the color of sea
foam like milk from an old udder
beneath the crisp shell of crème brûlée.
I’m building a career based on access,
the pointing man dictates to his secretary-in-wait,
to his briefcase by the bed stolen
with a note that sent him home after school
one frosted May day for dressing like a girl.

Amy King

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