Be like me.

Only write about fingertips and rivers
and Christmas lights.

And when daddy’s hand hit the grey granite countertop
and cracked the damn thing in two.

Only let the things pass that are rolling
from you like rapids.

Be a butcher
and remember the red-dripping insides
of your sister’s mouth
and how stitches look from the inside.

Ghost in places
with that tube of plasma-red in your jean pocket.
There’s so much outlawing left to do.

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