This selection, chosen by Guest Curator Kirsten Kowalewski, is from We Know Each Other By Our Wounds by June Marr, released by Animal Heart Press in 2020.
Pacing My Midtown Neighborhood
On Marietta Street, a light pole rusts and falls, wind-whacked across snaggletooth sidewalk I step over wires to where broken pavers heave out of Georgia’s red earth: traffic snaps as I cross the street, seeing no one but the man who sells umbrellas he asks for a dime: his hand contains a fractal wave of coins, as proof: his palm seams ancient I move smoothly as a jointed doll along Hollowell, past the teen who pirouettes, their body beautiful, their mouth dribbling honey I’m not real by the Mobil station there’s a package store sells vodka by the quarter pint: one woman pushes her hand against my face— You got ID? she asks. Show me ID— I’m on Lowery now: boarded homes, fragile as leaf-skeletons: oak-shaded, empty lots; porch life; preachers— Can I give you a pamphlet? No? Okay. Jesus loves you anyway— left onto Boone, where a yard contains players with a stake in every game I pass the one whose dress shirt radiates: blinded I nod back.
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