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This Message
Eric Phetteplace
This message has not been sent
but it has been written a hundred times
in crayon and hypodermic needles
in cream-colored skin and loneliness.
Every face begs a question I can’t ask,
looks like those awakened
from unremembered nightmares
that canvassed their sleeps:
we will always dream of you.
Walk through darkness on familiar roads
slow-motion amnesia, gentle currents
of the river Styx.
—Pull me out.
We’re tired of treading water.
Stitch and tape this future back together.
—Do you want to go somewhere and eat something?
She could feed a family for several months
on lollipops and crisps
on cream-colored skin and loneliness.
The table scraps of reality