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Gale Marie Thompson




There is a crowd of parents 

around me tonight. 

The fact that we are perishing 

is the easiest to understand. 

I didn’t know anything before my brain existed

and I’m afraid I won’t know anything after. 

I need to be occupied with something 

other than the kitchen radio, 

that growing feeling stuck to my ribs. 

I want to dance my little heart out 

until I shimmer off the walls. 

I want the jubilant dance, that early thing. 

I want the sound we make 

when we are naked and dancing 

and connected with everyone, 

the fur and the dancing. 

Being reborn is like stumbling 

against the water, full as a bell. 

My family is made of milk 

and a general feeling in the vertebrae. 

There is smoke on my sweater. 

My sweater is my family.

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