Brit Blalock

Epigraph for This Poem

I am taking the word “dedication” and putting it on the windowsill to gather sunlight and heaviness. It is like swallowing, no, it is like burying bright the whole of a day spent in disguise. Who are the hushed ones that hear chirping? Who are the blank-faced dancers begging for speech? I give them names to fit my moods and make them wear pieces of my clothing. I build stairs out of pages pried from books; they are crowded teeth in the mouths of my almost children. I follow them upwards and into the formation of paper-thin walls patched with scribbles and coincidence.


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