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I can't make her into a child.

I can't make her into a child. She gave me Colorforms after my surgery when I was 3. I didn't throw up from the ether. I built people with triangular hats in a shiny black world, traded their arms, gave one a giant head. I cannot make her simple. I cannot, cannot, cannot. There is no one me who can take charge, concentrate desire, effort, time. We hold hands for awhile; they stay where we place them, grounded in common darkness.
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Title Annotation:untitled poem
Author:Clary, Killarney
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Jul 1, 1993
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