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  • Emma Lucana


Sometimes the broken light bulb flickering erratically.

And others the honey put into warm tea.

Sharpened number two pencils or banana flavored milk.

I am the smiling sun on a crayon-drawn family portrait

hung on the refrigerator door.

A caution sign, calloused hands, lit candles on a desk.

I am the infection of a wound,

the murky sky after a fire,

the first place prize.

The ring hidden deep within the pocket

of a man with clammy palms.

Raincoats, taxis on a bustling street,

fallen leaves on an October evening.



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