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With|her

This morning I tried to hold it all in a paper sack—the glass jar I drink

water from, a “breakfast-to-go” smoothie, day old kale slaw that I purchased aware

of its wilt—and when it slipped out of my hands and shattered on the parking garage concrete

I had to repeat three times: Don’t believe the image. Don’t believe the image.

Don’t believe the image. It’s a poet’s works to know that on my knees, collecting

the pieces of glass and ripped brown paper that I may read as a|lone

woman exceeding her capacity. It’s a woman’s work to persuade myself otherwise. 

Posted 11/12/16
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