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Fourth Grade was Cold by Rachel Thorpe

There is a picture of a white dog with white eyes in a boat that capsizes along the east coast. It doesn’t rain for 6 weeks afterwards but no died. 2 girls tell me that love is vampire that hasn’t been seen since 2001 but there’s still hope, don’t worry blue eyed Pink Floyd baby, a stranger plays “waiting for the worms” and you know how it goes. 2 girls tell me I can sharpen pencils on my headaches like a pocket knife or the gravel slush snow. There’s something about elementary school library air conditioning that chills me to the bone. Like the books will unravel under the first sign of warmth. This is the part of the poem where you stop reading. This is the part of the poem where you tell me you forget. How we mixed all the flavors into mud and called it suicide. How our knees were raw an entire year and no one cared. And the virus named BRAIN_FREEZE that ate your computer and drove drunk to your house. There’s only one girl left now. She doesn’t puke on your doorstep but she is foaming at the mouth. It gnaws at the back of your head and you know I’m right. A book about the smallest cat in the world. And a 1:45 daydream about a white dog with white eyes.

Photo by Ingrid Streitz


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