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CLAIRE OLESON DECAPITATED SONG to test a horse for rabies, you must cut its head off and mail it. two bags: one for the head, one for its trust in light, sky, and your hands. a nag's bad walk shows that it's all lost. a doctor to come in the next day with barbiturates and a bone saw, true you decided to start being clay in time for summer. old now, you admit is something you'd like to get to. without help, your father in the nursing home's blue limits helps a twenty-something aid fight back against a gone-mad ex-boyfriend. he downs him. you have to cut off the head to cut off the head. this takes forty minutes, which takes all day. they send him away; they don't kill him. I ask to bum some of your testosterone. you ask me to hold a forty-pound bag without looking inside. WITHOUT INSURANCE gasoline hanging in the parking lot air like a friend's dog: half-familiar, half wilderness. love? well, just remember me to the car that got us from the hospital (out too early, out like still-setting gelatin) you saying: hold me, but don't touch. (they didn't have your info yet, you insisted, and could not bill you) I want dinner so meanly. this is when we personalize the general: the sun is yellow; until you look really, stare: this sun is white, then blue-green as a kindergarten model of earth as you carry it home in closed eyes. the cost would need your name in it to matter. I learn where your waist is, what your weight is, how to move it as butter on butter on asphalt. |