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A constrained poem I wrote for The Stonefence Review‘s Spring 2013 publication.


I admit that, in the night, I stole
Into your room, plucked a
Hair from your pillow and
Sent it —midnight airmail— to a
Lab in Tanzania. I’m sorry, but
I just had to know the sequence of
Your soul.

They say you
Can’t curl your
Tongue, but you

Can wiggle your ears;
That you hate
Apples, fancy Goulash
Grudgingly;

That you
Can’t quite believe
That there’s life

After death.
They say: you make
A mean omelette, but

That your Galantines
Chaud-froid
Congeal, every

Time. You’re
Good
At

T
A
G

Cause you’ve
An
Antelope’s speed (

That’s your
Argentinian blood,
Apparently.)

And you
Care so much it
Aches:

About
The starving in
Africa;

About the penguins
Global warming’s
Going to melt;

About the
Children on the
Corner selling lemonade;

About the scantily-
Clad models in
The magazines — You’ll

Always take
The penultimate
Cookie, leaving

The last for me; You’ll
Chase a stranger’s
Gecko all

Through town
To return it
To his arms.

They say evolution’s
Grown your
Third toe

A quarter
Cm longer
Than the average —

And that’s just
The first page,
There’s another

Thousand, if you
Care to take a
Gander.


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