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Gregory Lawless




My father was a factory

that made smoke razors newspapers

coffee women two children his father

made coal trucks shovels power hoses

he didn’t forgive anything he made that too


I made a daughter her fear

of closets her fear of the moon

her scars her mother


stuffs potatoes beer sauce charred meat

into me TVs pills washcloths

cigarettes I make bad dreams

headaches sweat I pour lightning

into my kisses they hurt everything


they tell me I

use stabwords

to cut around their silence

that I made their silence

is for me.





            For Nico


I brought my dead horse

into the field

to graze

between the fat poppies

and burrs.


Bumblebees flew

their propeller planes

right through

his ribs, and his teeth


smashed together

without touching

the dried grasses


when he bent down

to eat.  His eyes tossed

back and forth


like snowballs

watching the sweet gum

sway, the swallows


bicker apart

in the low rows

of soy—the whole gone

world growing away.


At night the stars

fell down

and burned him

and scared him


into the trees,


where I guess

he’s still running,


either toward me

or away from me.


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