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Basement, 1997.

 If you feel like something happened, they say,
then it probably did. It. If you feel like.
Happened, probably, something (& the something
always the same). But oh, if you had the catalogue
of all the things I feel like happened--
I feel like beneath the stairs down there
a cohort of devils, half-faces,
black draft of wing. Storm shelter a cold,
blue-white aperture
to an all-belly cell. The laboratory
where the scientist grows monsters
as real as the guts of shortwave radio
& wrapping paper spooled
over the counter. & who can trust
a girl circuited to feel like that?
Indiscriminate. Instincts wired
to twenty worlds. Better to depend
on what I know. I know
whenever I descended the steps alone
I sang. I believed I could keep it all at bay.
I was told, if that counts,
that I was once found there
atop the laundry table, catatonic.
& if that unmemory feels
like a hole in spacetime,
what does that say of feeling like? What does it say
of something & how if you probably.
Happened. Feel like. Something.
They say. Did.
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Author:Chamness, Fiona
Publication:Prairie Schooner
Article Type:Poem
Date:Sep 22, 2019
Words:213
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