A Friend
I cannot explain my animus, the thorny place
I come from in the swamp at the edge of town.
I remember my life when I find the trail behind
the grocery store to my favorite spot among
yesterday’s news. Strewn among me are my
belongings where the present meets a mystery
lunch wrapped in cellophane. Dogs miss me.
My body incarcerates a lie as black as a Bible,
something my tongue misses when I pronounce
my fate. My blade cuts through vines till it is
as dull as a song no one can finish. I used to want
to see my friend slipping through these woods,
her laughter echoing through the trees, her soft
parts visible in the sunlight. I put my arm around
her at Christmas, but I can no longer feel anything.
Her hair covers my shoulder as she smiles.
Joel Fry
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