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Day 8: Tupelo Press 30/30 Poetry Project ( National Poetry Month)


BEFORE SLEEP

I love your nude from a distance.

I never say that.

On a bed, under the white 
sheets, I say, Don’t touch my breasts 

when I write.

The lead of a pencil crumbles. I wipe 
my wet palm on the blue notebook. 

I want you to turn off
the television and hold my hand.  I am lying 

curled up and my legs 
knock your left thigh. Your bruise does not heal 

like your first marriage.

(You are drowsy.)

Did you pay rent? 
I repeat twenty seven times by your ear.

(You softly nod.)  

The silver stars are 
peeling from the sky. I scream, 

Don’t you dare sleep before me.

I throw 

the alarm-clock into the wall. 
Jupiter falls into the sun 

and the whole universe is fucking 

collapsing.

I want that.



***Note:  A part of the first line is from “A Neon Tryst” by Lina Ramona Vitkauskas. 





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