Matthew Mahaney

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DEAR ELIZABETH, I SOMETIMES THINK OF YOU AS A NEW KIND OF NOISE.

Or not a noise but a thing from which the noise can come. A little three
pronged tuning fork. Your tone is ankle crack, is wrung from treetops cased
in week-old ice. If only your metal stems could inspect my skin. My skin so
warm and slick with oils. My appetite is wingspan, is pollen dusted skyline.

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DEAR ELIZABETH, WILL YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN IF I SAY MY BOXFIRE

breaks quickly? That it splinters into small gaps? The colors swell too slowly
to enjoy. When it is over, there is a sifting. A clearing away of. Soon enough
there is simply me again, staring at my hands. Waiting for something whole
to press its weight into my skin.


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