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White plate
The car on ice spins out at 70 miles an hour.
My sister throws herself over the banister
breaking both legs (but not her life,
which is what she wanted).
A wild man worries the locks
of the doors and windows
as I run just ahead with my little girl
to secure each one.
Just so, violence plays
in my dreams.
And in the light of day,
a tin can cuts my finger to the bone.
At work my ankle turns
above a wet shoe, and down I fall
flat on the linoleum
of the old department’s floor.
My anger at a co-worker’s refusals
throbs like my finger and hip.
We are torn, and we
tear; the throbbing vein
tells the truth. We wrap it
and unwrap it, and like the peels
and tendons of a pomegranate,
discard its stained residue
on a serene white plate.
February 2012
Painting "Dood snipje" by Jan Mankes, 1909
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