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liberty to say

by Beth Pauli
and even now I am not at liberty to say
just think eyes as blue as painted oceans
with little white hands tossing a ball--
or a boat--
from one to the other with such ease,
but no skull to contain them in their place.
massive floods, tidal waves--
quantities of water rushing to no
particular locality with grave haste.
driven by a natural force
destroying all in its way.
and now a bowed head, a gasp for air--
a crying face.
for why? for what malice?
and still I am not at liberty to say.
simply imagine a heroine addict
shooting up in the bathroom of a bar--
weekly, nightly, even more.
imagine all those drugs pumped into a crow
and how that crow would be still on its back in the dirt
paralyzed, but living, vulnerable, but black and large.
what else expected from a small body and
asinine amounts of drugs?
any body. any drug. lying with white flags draped, hanging.
a warm corpse.
for why? for what evil?
I am not at liberty to say.



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