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Beth Gordon

Beth Gordon

Reading Poetry

Celery and hummus and olives with bleu cheese. The wine
is seeping through my pen. Move, he says to the bigger
dog, and she does, as polite as a nun. I’m aware I tell him
of the poets of days past, the women who fill my pages.
Thank you dear ladies, but I pray you understand, I must
free myself (oh how I must escape) from the sadness,
of your lives. Prayer helps, he says, prayer and brute
force. Maybe an exorcism is in order. Asking for scraps,
the smaller dog inches forward, not so polite, not so prone
to deference. Sunshine, I say, days and days of yellow light.

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