BRANDY LOVEA Poem by VolWho’s the first to go? You know it’s gotta happen because nothing is like it’s supposed to be. But then, has anything ever worked like it should? She remembers the first time she stepped outside and how it felt when her pink toes pressed into the crushed gravel. It hurt. It still does, just like it’s supposed to. That book she read was all wrong, white is clean, sin-free, beautiful on its surface, and that whale must have been a magnificent package of muscle and sinew, such swift tonnage to blow through the water like a storm and left those men adrift to think about the important stuff of breath and blood. She nods now when she looks in the mirror; the stranger on the other side frowns, has something to say, her brow furrowed, eyebrow up, she asks all raspy and serious, “Who the hell are you?” So she shrugs, replies, “That’s exactly what I want to know.”
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