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by Connie Yu

I keep the apron

in my backseat,

to meet my friends,

I am guilty and I

don’t plan on




I feel fine

I am just

afraid of

coming feelings


and lingering

Black Friday

traffic, what can


what is


and how do we

decide who to

subsist on, who

to extirpate,

bottom-up, like

images of fish,

which conversation

can figure out who

is guilty, and

who remembers.

I remember, I

think, or I

remember fully

the feeling, of

no permission,

my arms

trapped in

its own protection,

I fall down the

steps, black out,

it’s their positive

space that saves

me, the negative,

where I was,

cast into the surface

like Whiteread’s

lonely sculptures,

this is the place

where things

once seeped,

way too old and

sad and hoping

this is where I

am, now,

three and a

half years kept,

I wear this to

forget, selfishly,

where did I

turn away,

in favor of


healing, it

will be ok,

how to say

this in a

way not


how to better

blur, in


after close


who is leading the

charge, when does

its maker step

back and out,

in October, or years

later, when does he

feel — it’s time,

are we ready, and

was that what

you wanted?

How to meld

one body, body

gone, one fold,

pressed, onto

another, the

textual shell,

Unland, or,

fibers glued

shut, a

system jammed

in spite of

time, broken

bodies over-

lapping as

monument to

never being

the same,

again, keep

the tunic as

gauze, as

lining, remember

me as I am

broken, remember

me no longer

bare, how


this is revisable,

habitude, necessary

blankness and

blanket; if this

is a also a “micro-

climate of hope,” if

this is the language-

mobile that keeps

on spinning




Read all work by Connie Yu


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