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Arvel Azcoe
Poems
Jan 2014
Snap
She sets the pistol-like object down,
returns to the wound with a cotton swab,
and fixes a pretty little gem in place.
"$60," she says, and I wince;
not in reaction to the fresh wound,
or my lightened wallet.
But rather at the fact
that no pain can relate to
that of my ******, ruptured heart.
Written by
Arvel Azcoe
Chicago
(Chicago)
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Justin Grabenschroer
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