Untitled 7


Folded three hundred dollar damascus


touched for a moment

a calloused palm



against bone


She didn’t notice

she cut strawberries,

cubed cantaloupe

mixed the brightly colored summer treats


not to bruise them.




black cats

bottle rockets

charred paper bits

announce the holiday

tiny bombs

burst the air

She does not blink



a thousand miles from

eyes that will not meet hers,

whose palms, sweaty with guilt

press bills into her own

paw furtively,

Hope long abandoned to

echo silently in hungry mouths

wrapped in blankets

thrown in dumpsters

It is independence day

It is never independence day



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