I Am Both Worse and Bet­ter Than You Thought

The Iowa Review - - MELISSA BARRETT -

I put the soul in squalor. I put the lord in dol­lar. If I have noth­ing nice to say, I say it louder. In all caps on your blog. My dog’s name is Paul, short for APOL­O­GIZE. I re­ject Ce­les­tial Sea­son­ings and make my own tea with Ste­via and a bay leaf. A speak­able sad­ness is an un­mov­able feast. The feta doesn’t travel well. My nau­sea is moon col­ored. Stay up late in­dex­ing the lit­tle things. The equiv­a­lent of “it’s all Greek to me” in Greek. In Ger­man, they say, “I can only un­der­stand ‘train sta­tion,’” and then prob­a­bly, “Ich weiss nicht.” Takes one to know one. Takes gum to blow one. A bub­ble. A moon. Float­ing over the pond like nau­sea, the feta swells in the heat. The back of the Wind­star smells like child­hood. I ought to praise you like I should.

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