Allen Forrest © 2017 All Rights Reserved
after Jennifer Gravley
I am from chapped hands, hospital corners, pack of Salem on
the sewing machine. I am from truncated surname, dry river
bed, nails bitten down to the quick. I am one in a series of three
or more. I am from colic, small pox vaccination, pierced lip
mermaid. I am from April, from Monday, from a body in motion
that will not change its velocity. I am from the back of my
mother’s hand, her disintegrating spine, stoic German farm
stock. From gingerbread houses and absent mother clichés.
From mildew behind the faucet, from gates rusted shut, from
Deborah Hauser is the author of Ennui: From the Diagnostic and Statistical Field Guide of Feminine Disorders. Her work has recently appeared in Bellevue Literary Review, TAB: The Journal of Poetry & Poetics, and Carve Magazine. She leads a double life on Long Island where she works in the insurance industry.
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