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Teresa Wright

tracing twaddle dot by dot, letter by letter

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I was traded (the naked truth is rarely mushy)


I know the scent like a holding 
breaths of sweat beading ooze 
off the folds, unopened wallets 
pressed as a wager in the dark.

Sprawled like the odds, waiting 
in the cards to be the handbill 
exchanged. An easy good turn 
between cronies and consorts.

I know the etching like an itch 
ink fathoms my flesh pursuing 
the trivial like a ream of paper 
marking my effigy up-for-grabs.

Consumed like a godsend, bent 
on the ropes towards the grind 
as easy to rub out as a begging 
laying waste to the early yield.

I know the die probing cleaner 
hands like scars and hard rags,
inhaled its tasteless veneer as
an oracle sunk in taciturn tears.



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