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Something to ReadThe book the suicide's mother wroteSits fat on the shelf next to a daily calendar The xerox of the poem in Urdu Looks like sandpiper footprints before a wave You said you had a very sexual dream about me In which I wrote the story of your life as a librarian The discarded newspapers in the recycling pile Hold the print of the look in the eyes of the refugees We kept the orphaned guinea pigs alive Feeding them evaporated milk in a dropper Some days I remember I'm a Jew Saying Hear O Israel and covering my eyes with my hand Today is Tuesday, and I've learned the word "makta" Means putting my name, Miriam, in this last line. |
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Issue #12, November, 1999 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.