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Will There Be More

One boob sags               lower in the picture
you took of me               standing in front
of the blue, conical               flowers, did you hear comical   

when I said               here, maybe
from this direction               what I meant was
make me young, less               barbed & bloated 

with meaning, I mean               make me forget
this thunderous thrashing               the way I lash
myself with self-               imposed deadlines:

run ten miles               by end of year
fit back into               my favorite blue
dress, stave off death               with thoughts of

suicide, The Cranberries               I'm free
to decide               in the picture I don't
appear liminal or sad               I'm whiter than

absence               my Dijon dress
art deco leaves               & you
implied by the frame,               the fact of the photograph

holding in time               what we did after
the sun abetting               our stolen hour       
while we dusted off             the names of flowers 

This poem was published by SUSAN / The Journal.