by Rhonda Miller
Limes like sweet jam store in my fridge,
And yet I cannot quit thinking of
the dead pig.
Fire drifts through me,
Burning all images besides
the dead pig.
Books line the shelves
My eyes scan,
But all I read is
the dead pig.
Desperate women cloud the depths of my synapses,
Opinions, reasons, words of encouragement,
But damn it, all my thoughts are of the God damned
dead pig.
Who's running for president?
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