Leveler Poetry Journal
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Jenny

 

It is no friendly world.

With men boring pocks
into the ground.
Pocks for hiding in,
for rising up out of
in white, deaf, bone silence.

 

Embarrassing, to be afraid,
never to be the right
animal at the right time. Men,
jaws cocked, forever nearing.
Men in pockets of the
neighborhood dark.

 

But from the street I can smell
something blue: someone has
used too much laundry soap.
I want now to be folded into
the breast of a plush cow.
I want to have many mothers.




Lindsay Macik