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--- S T E V E N   J .  S T E W A R T

this is a boy named Jake tossing a soapy glover against a burning carriage his mother's name is Mrs. boss her opinions come from Mexican restaurants for falling dogs her kitchen is a beige tortilla wrinkling in the sun a steaming gingham frock layered in glossy mud they are trying to solve Mondays in the abstract petitioning their god with recalcitrant expressions of virtue they practiced science in the electric village wearing blue jump suits with the eyes torn out this flashlight is the boy's father stuck in a back pocket or Mrs. Boss perusing any number of bone charts the neighborhood women are the wardens of consciousness their clothes the words summer, grace color, holocaust Jake thinks saffron is a sum of money earned by dropping sacks of tortillas or spilling buckets of guacamole - Jake is a prisoner of the moon the moon is a parking lot the father is a major credit card he is a Monday culminating in your murkiest dreams Mrs. Boss strides through blood and soil to keep her damaged word Jake's collection of fifty dancing girls is the sonnet this little basket of cummerbunds is a burning house you are the ironed socks in this play you are the high price of its landscape your tragic flaw is a poppy and this dappled matchbook cover an epilogue

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