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Letters: This Agonizing Press  

 
Mother,

I’ve covered myself in kitchen oils and rested my back on picnic tables.

I’ve seen a congregation of clouds praying between the mountains,

their psalms glass-ironed, more accurate than my own.

Was I also made like glass?

Sand heated into ice, shaped by the body of a ghost.

My votive flesh stretched out like latex over these vagabond’s toes.

Was I melted into breath, forced through you like smoke?

 

Mother,

I did not mean this agonizing press. It was autumn.

The bushes were woven through the fence

and I was catching all of the breeze,

fixing the boxes of suits folded into our bones.

Fixing the corner shelves crested with our tools,

the steel-broken doorways.

 

Mother,

I was holding trucks of bread at dawn.

In the exhaust-warmed morning I ground my stones into salt.

The winter passed too thickly. At four am I woke and listened

to the crush of my boots against the snow

and with my salt and with my penis and with my mind

I went against the boardwalk,

dampened my clothes against the wood, and woke the cold. 



Thomas P. Levy wrote his first poems secretly, in the bathroom of the therapeutic community he lived in for several years. Recently, his poems have appeared more publicly, in Night Train, Qarrtsiluni, Arcadia and Barbaric Yawp, he also has poems which are slated to appear in Pear Noir! He lives in Southern California where he works as a short order cook, co-edits the literary news blog Enumerations www.enumerations.wordpress.com and pretends to be a freelance web designer.


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