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Matrushka

                                    TJ Beitelman


What did you do when you made me in your
image—a mere gust of a thing, no more
whole than an eclipse? A supernova
comes alive in a wink. Roll me over
in flour, slowly. I’m boneless, tender. I’m
sustenance on a Sunday: candied yams,
collards, black-eye peas and me. Chart the stars—
go ahead: everything expands. Blur
the lines you make when you make forever . . .
—But supper. Now there’s a thing. What better
fate than pushing, pushing a tightening
wall in increments? What better lightning
could you conjure? I’m inside your insides.
No place to go but down or up. I’ve tried.


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