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Non-Sonnet Commissioning an Amber Locket

Betsy Wheeler

Oval drop of wretched amber, I curse
your sappy qualities. You’re so saving.
So sassy in your slow decline down tree bark.
Poor scorpion. Poor mite. You pour over
their edges & keep. You scallywag the eight-
legged. You bear repeating.

Could you do me for? Could you
syrup my heart in its current,
only mildly-bruised state? Do a little
save-for-later strung on silver
for a future someone. Best it’s done before
more damage comes.
                                 Ba-bum. Ba-bum.
Preserved before the death of it could
case the barely beating.

Betsy Wheeler

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