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Christine Scanlon


Love—he told me—now is the time 

your face should be joined 

by another.  

Face. Body. Host. Stranger. 

Me over and over.  

He, always by the book  

found purpose in it—a fathered figure. 

& while I was tweaking—before  

my medicine kicked. To help forget 

what is real—  

I knew to avoid 

to excess, maybe, being pulled 

into his little square of light. 

Preserving—it might turn out—my most

interesting parts. Fierce with burning 

& great swells  

under my eyes distended 

by tidal emotions 

— I wade in. 


Miracle. Muck.  

Machinations of the mess.

Our mistake  


in choosing. We stopped

each other from moving.


With mild swearing, may I  

take another bite out of you?

Because of my sweet-tooth. 

A mausoleum or museum

our life from the inside



but we keep 

sashaying through. 

Christine Scanlon has a poetry collection, A Hat on the Bed (Barrow Street Press). Other poems have appeared in, among other publications,  littletell, Dream Pop Press,Flag + Void, and YES Poetry. 

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