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Poetry: Gretchen Primack 

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Am I ready to die?
I keep waiting to know
and watch a lot of tv
in the meantime.
I think perhaps I’d like it,
nothingness. This something-
ness is a damp screwed clamp
squeezing, Keep it up!
It isn’t sustainable.
Still, I cannot end my
self. That’s blood
talking, old and stubborn.

I am positive there is no point to any
of this, and so fashion my own
and don’t kid myself. There are frames
on the wall, clean meals, creatures
and loves and books, pens and art.
There is the television, cool
as a fridge, smug on its haunches.
Between the looking and cooking
and talking, the tv.

I could just sit in a chair or in front
of the tv or on the grass
and wait for other people’s art,
and gobble it, sometimes so fast
it makes me sick. Still it keeps
coming, some of it so fine. It is
how we show how scared we are
and how we become less scared.

Speaking of...

  • Three Poems about the Same Thing, by Gretchen Primack


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