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PANHANDLE GOTHIC

BRAD TRUMPFHELLER

& how else could she begin:

 

the night’s slow & haunted song—quiet

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like she always was          when she talked

 

about her mothers.                  Here is where sky drones

 

a moon out of stretch-marked skin          & here

 

                    is where their ramshackle house is cradled             like a swamp

 

might keep blackened bones.           Outside, a mob ghosts

 

the property line, throbbing          in & out of sight.          Some wear clothes

 

that they wore in life; others scabs of uncloseted

 

robes.               O Lord, why did you name these things?      Men

 

who wear such masks, why are they not       dead? The neighbors have

 

so many faces tonight. Listen:           this is where they call

 

my grandmothers        godless dykes.        Hear how that unholy naming

 

can flutter in your breast? It sounds just

 

like a window opening

 

around the shape of a brick.

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