The poem feels its erasures
As the old soldier feels his old wounds
Which make his dreams what they are.
And the household what it was
And the child the man
Who puts his raging alky Dad in the nursing home and done.
I am the eraser, I am the whiteout
In the nerveways I jump
And jack. Mostly jack.
“Similar tactics in other verticals”
A man once said to me
And then said, “all fixed. Should be right as rain.”
- Karen Chamisso
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