Poem with Lies

The Iowa Review - - FRONT PAGE - Jes­sica laser

Noth­ing in pride but a flower. Noth­ing in a stare but glass life. No fruit but a spore and silent nec­tar. To re­mem­ber this is to bear all things. Life bears no fruit but of too much color, stands for taste where sun and taste ally. Branches per­me­ate less I see through them. This is not a pas­sion­less lie. I know they are liv­ing when all they slope is pale and dusk be­neath and though I open my finer imi­ta­tion, love is a child spurned, un­prac­ticed for. Things I’ve ex­pe­ri­enced num­ber far greater than those I love, so I felt, as I feel, doubt is fate, and dou­bly so for be­ing left alone in­de­ter­mi­nate. The thief is about. Must be. I have three verses in me left be­fore it leaves and it’s sum­mer sum­mer sum­mer. I live with three peo­ple. They are my par­ents. They place a bowl of sand be­fore me and a spoon and beg me drink. Drink? I ask. The chain is yel­low. She is sit­ting there, and he and he. And with the sun one end in each hand I pass the hours walk­ing a child poverty comes with money on the ta­ble and leave re­mem­ber­ing hav­ing no be­long­ings my funds are ex­er­cise. The child moves faster for it. I quar­ter the three I love most

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