Spring 1998 • Vol. XX No. 2 Poetry |

Sick Day

Mama, I came down pup-sick among the bureaucrats! Inside my skin I felt fever choose me the way shame regularly used to, on the playground. Home, rumple-bedded, I keep stumbling mostly by accident upon myself in & out of lurid sleep hourly. I called & called for you but you were dead. But I cried! & it didn't do any good. It would if you cared, like the other mothers.

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