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Syosset, NY. October 17, 2002

written by: Amanda Needham

 

the fox you ran over
in your big black truck that felt too big for just you
and thin yellow lines
unsubstantial chain link fences
well, it
ate my heart out
I wandered through backyards,
across trail cameras
full eyed
and empty chested
pomegranate stained chin
matted hazel hair
I rang your doorbell
but no one answered
so I waited in the root cellar
where Melly Burton made you a man
the summer you turned 14
tearing you in two
rare, unearthly things
they never named
and argue do not exist
that walk on hind legs
like a long forgotten dream creature
our separate lines of ancestors
that meet between my thighs
the dried paper nest
hanging in the corner
shuffling and buzzing
I open my mouth
and invite them in
filling my throat with their song
that only knows your name
fingers pressed
to your dirty glasses
as you sleep
cradling dreams of your grandmother
with her wicker hands
and false teeth
the fox on her shoulder
my heart in its maw
and beating

Amanda Needham

Amanda Needham

I'm an American poet living in Wales and no taller than an oyster shell. When not complaining about the weather, I can be found willing plants to grow, falling asleep in the greenhouse, or drinking entirely too much coffee. If you see me I will probably try to talk about ghosts or how my cat snores like an old lady.
Amanda Needham

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