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Sarcophagus: To the Bed

Kristi Maxwell

amounts to porchlight. The sidewalk

muddled through his hair. Our weapon is these: my this

on his, his this on this like a marriage not stretched out as Tennessee

but more

the notch Ohio is. Near

a pond superfluous

with cod. These. Nearer me, he never mouths open

at morning. For the breath

secure as a bench my tongue could sit on but for the wet.

Yes, the rains are again. The bed

is mounted by porchlight. So I can't sleep

says translucent eyelids, like awkward fish

where the ocean drained. To his I do

I do the bed like a sheet. That the cord can dictate light

we don't complain about. What long fingers

margin his touch, dedicated as this bulb

to fishing

my waking. He sleeps through

and through, like a good kind of genuine—that is not proof

the gold is

Kristi Maxwell

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