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Apron

by Connie Yu

I keep the apron

in my backseat,

to meet my friends,

I am guilty and I

don’t plan on

telling.

 

 

I feel fine

I am just

afraid of

coming feelings

 

and lingering

Black Friday

traffic, what can

survive,

what is

foreign-bodied,

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

institutionless

healing, it

will be ok,

how to say

this in a

way not

sinister,

how to better

blur, in

large-scale,

after close

examination,

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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