who is it that has us believing
that memories exist in a timeline
and that maybe that particular sequence is us
we folk know
it is like the air is made of gelatin
and somebody threw a stone through a church window
as it was congealing--
raw like the red meat she handled
burned with industrial quantities of industrial strength sanitizers
shrimp tails under her chipped fingernails
knuckles wide and knotted.
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