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Late Night Unspooling
Sarah Blackman
Because what comes from the body
is a claim for the body. The body
makes a claim on the air that surrounds
it by one millimeter like flowers
make a claim on their air with their outrageous1
young men with anger. At night, when I
need to be calmed, I inhabit again the days
of my children’s births. The oldest one tipped
blue and staring, the youngest round
and tightly shut. Mine says the body
Mine mine mine. And it means around it
the soil and the air, the greening light
that comes from the exhalation of growth
which is a plant’s only joy. On summer evenings
the child’s hair lifts up toward the roof as if the shape
of the roof could draw to it all unshapes
and make them triangular3. Power is a stable base,
is the eye opening for the first time—
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