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I like the cold
That rushes through my body,
In the winter when I wake
It runs straight to my heart
Whiskey cask sits on floor
cask grows lighter
eyes focus no more
i.

chemo
makes
of each bone
a wind chime
which
in poetry
would be
some first
house
beauty
but  

in the body
of my father

    no

ii.

it is cruel to hang anything above a baby’s crib

iii.

I can only guess
I was happy
in the womb
with how
my mother
looked
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