Loom of the Land


By Chris Kelso


My daughter

A burning hot yield

A raging pink poinsettia

Of raw oppression

That’s what she’ll be

All scotch tape and wrinkles

Vodka in her cup

She somehow knew that this would work.

She just knew, as if the knowledge had been gifted to her

In some hypermnesic dream.

It was confident and red behind her eyes

Pull off a few reels of the tape

Place a band of it over a wrinkled left cheek.


It didn’t work – big surprise.

People never cry there.

I’m glad she didn’t have to cry

But she used to love the rain

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