THINGS (BAGAGE) by Linette Marie Allen

is the reason—

lungs swelled

to beasts,


legs to the grave,

the joy of nothing



strawberries & cream

still cold

under arm,


flick ashes to eagles

whilst waiting

for Hassle—


the name we

assign our new



Surely, she knows

no empathy for the



is absent the reason

we bandage thumbs

with painter’s tape—


hideous blues

hiding upper                                        /cuts,



fuck! five centos about Io

& Sappho

& Brussels


in the rain. In the frosting,

wet with Dione,

I came


to better understand

how to plot green dye

like Picasso’s Third,


how to lift heavy metal

and not hurt

lower back.


/I sneak a sip/


A pregnant girl rings.

Quarters whap,

I think


surely virgin thumbs / were made                   / for greater

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