Leveler Poetry Journal
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Deadass

 

Michelle said, repeating

herself, you can’t

repeat this

 

as if words won’t exist

for unknown

unknowns.

 

And though soothing

a taxonomy only

obfuscates the truth

 

days keep calm, rain

wanders in, and the courtyard

is speechless.

 

Your mom thinks,

let’s get it – this

one thing – straight.

 

It’s the loose, soft stuff

that connects

that hurts.

 

And like a wall, we’ll

believe anything.

I try to remember

 

my refrain, my fear,

better than hers.

What won’t hold water?

 

A leaky ceiling, a tiny

baby. Close the door.

Take a seat.

 

Hooty hoo.




Andrew Weatherhead