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"Comin for to Carry Me Home" (Freewrite - 3.5.13)

Some nights she was

a double-take-smile

an affirmation by soft-eyes and fluttering lashes

that hobbled like me wasn’t quite sure what to call

a proof that fit for photographs was possible

for a misprint puzzle piece that never made it to the box

a post-modern sculptor able to see art in me;

I would have lived in her hands.

Other nights she was

a swift machete swung

low,

swung chariot,

swung like her father taught her,

like comes natural to her,

like she swung all her life,

good follow through;

the kind of sweeping shot to legs

that reminds you of your damaged parts and

all the things you’ve learned to walk through

your wobbling knees; atrophies you had

forgotten were ever not a part of you

that turns prosthesis into

paper mache and

reminds you that before your

feet found this callous

that the coals used to feel hot

I never

go to sleep

ungrateful.

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