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Pantoum Found in Glass

          after Anne Carson

He jerks his hand away. We sit, carefully not looking at a scorpion inside my clothes. A chill has begun to unclench. Carefully not looking at a scorpion, his silk white hand has begun to unclench, touching my left hand to his lips. His silk white hand goes out like a match, hot blue. Moonlight touching my left hand to his lips, almost wet. Lucency breathes in, goes out like a match. Hot blue moonlight removes my clothes, almost. Wet lucency breathes in and says I do not love you anymore. Remove my clothes, I cry. His black grin flares once and says I do not love you anymore in the high blue room. No, I cry. His black grin flares once inside my clothes. A chill in the high blue room. No, he jerks his hand away. We sit.









Richard Prins is a New Yorker who sometimes lives in Dar es Salaam. He received his MFA degree in poetry from New York University and currently serves as poetry editor of the literary series Ink.ed MFA. His work appears in such publications as Barrow Street, Cimarron Review, Los Angeles Review, Rattle, Southern Indiana Review, and Thrush Poetry Journal.


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