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My Name
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Down in the Dirt, v198 (the 8/22 Issue)



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Carrie—can you steal me the Nobel?

Kim Malinowski

Damn, Carrie Fisher, surely you can lend me your blaster,
maybe some bravado, more than a few token curse words.
I know that you can guide me to the Nobel, sway the judges,
screw up the tally. Well, if I don’t get it for my verbosity,
then maybe for gravity? All that falling into bracken
and sharp weeds should get me at least nominated.
The dirt clouds are always enough for even you to see.
I liked it when I was brushed off and gentle hands untangled
leaves from my shirt and how do you get people to wipe off tears
the same way and to listen to every murmur, every mutter under breath?
Will you counsel me on how to put that damn reed in my bagpipes,
how to relight my love affair with the somber tinge of my trombone,
my prayer quivering in my pulsating tongue—the beat hard and soft.
Can you take away my fear? That would be great. Give me a few “fuck yous”
and a dazzling ring laden middle finger. Leave me just enough tremor
to know that I am alive and maybe, if you could, take the ricocheting gun shots
from my brain and let in a soft breeze instead. Would something like that even work?
Can I give up on the idea of protection? That someone will shield me? Like Princess Leia?
Like General Organa? I want to pick up that blaster and be ballsy. Damn, I want that.
Can you help me grasp it? Whisper words in my ear that offer forgiveness
my heartbeat screaming as I pop another Xanax. I know about that Nobel.
You’ve got it planned. My words will fan the flames of the hopeless—
give them some other feeling to fill their emptiness.
And Carrie—we’ll show how we made ourselves, sinew, muscle, medication, and will.
And I bet you get this request a lot.
But can I borrow your metal bikini?



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