By Yeseo Kwak
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I won’t be here
next week.
next week.
so my leaden limbs
rekindle a dove, so
my wobbly teeth grind against
the grisly trauma–
hammer banging and banging
until I, the door, build a
hollow abyss in my gut–
a steady cycle of rumination,
interrupted; and more,
there is freedom
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