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Poetry

Walking in Worcester, MA

Walking in Worcester, MA

I
We weren’t so much walking
as picking our feet from between shards of colored glass,
cigarette butts, these small reminders of yesterday.

And the day before.
And the day before that.

As if this city were ever clean.

II
Our legs pumping blood between us,
circulation cut-off. Blood pooling
in the feet, fingers− your hands turning dark with blue like the ocean-water seen
from the travel-agency billboards peering over
your neighborhood’s shrunken shoulder.

III
With the crackling of chicken-bones beneath your soled feet I realize that these shapes of hands and legs and eyes dancing about from children to cars to refuse have been tied off.

IV
Day and night, the same subsistence
seen through boarded up windows.

“This is how it has always been, hasn’t it?”

If I were to resolve to scrape my palms
I would reconstruct your chickens, paste blood and sinew to their discarded frame.

“This is how it has always been.”

These bones your balled fists crushed under my feet.

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