poem: East Egg

there is a green light shining in the outside
of myself, I am
a woman, twenty years old. I
would like to say I am living in Paris,
waking up to men who keep dried flowers pressed
between Proust,
their lips wet
before the cigarette and after sex; when I take
my black umbrella and coat and
walk to Prague for coffee, Seoul for religion, Berlin
for art and ancestry, my Nazi
relatives making
skeleton smiles in the monuments,
their blood a monument, a fucking waste
of my time.

because I

am returning, living at home, with the earth
pressed flat under the window and myself
pressed flatter and sometimes
expanding, the dead men saying—you
cannot cannot cannot
save yourself.

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