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@ -9,6 +9,51 @@
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<name>Vane Vander</name>
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<email>vanevander@mayvaneday.org</email>
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</author>
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<entry>
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<title>Reynar</title>
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<link href="https://mayvaneday.org/poetry/r/reynar.txt" />
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<id>https://mayvaneday.org/poetry/r/reynar.txt</id>
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<published>2022-05-26</published>
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<summary type="html"><![CDATA[<article>
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<pre>
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The pendulum swings yet again back and forth
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as I ask you the millionth time and one more
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if you still love me, still tolerate
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my existence, are sure towards me
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you hold no sliver of anger or hate.
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Because we've made these vows so many more times,
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but I'm forbidden by my anxiety
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from failing to plan for any contingencies.
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Like I'm my father now,
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I myself with questions hound:
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"Well, now you're twenty-two,
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and I don't want to seem like I'm forcing you
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to come along with me."
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Angel numbers meet at midnight's bend.
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"For you, you'll never see me again."
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But Jett, does it work the other way?
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If I ask you to, will you forever stay?
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Will you swear yourself in health and sickness to my lonely side?
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Will you in this new world I am creating reside?
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Because, you should know,
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if you willed it,
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I would gladly disappear.
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Go, if you must,
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without fear.
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I will be here
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at the end of every day
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to reclaim
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that which was only ever mine.
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</pre>
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</article>]]>
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</summary>
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</entry>
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<entry>
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<title>Under My Fingernails</title>
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<link href="https://mayvaneday.org/poetry/u/under-my-fingernails.txt" />
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@ -188,72 +233,6 @@ against an ashen gray sky,
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in the first blooms and blossoms
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of my garden in birthing spring:
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if it was good and beautiful, I saw you in everything.
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</pre>
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</article>]]>
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</summary>
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</entry>
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<entry>
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<title>Tissue Sample</title>
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<link href="https://mayvaneday.org/poetry/t/tissue.txt" />
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<id>https://mayvaneday.org/poetry/t/tissue.txt</id>
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<published>2022-05-19</published>
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<summary type="html"><![CDATA[<article>
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<pre>
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How do I come to terms
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with the fact that I will die?
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How do I look my mother in the eyes
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and say, "You won't have me
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for that much more time?"
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I look in your eyes,
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and I see a flame
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that burns so bright,
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that signals something
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arriving
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just over the horizon.
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I expected to be dying by now,
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strength fleeing from my limbs,
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lungs crushed by anxiety
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like the world itself was closing in.
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I got all my homework done early
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in February
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even though graduation was three
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months away, not knowing
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what state I would be in,
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six months from onset
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being the low end.
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But except for the sores that pulse
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in movement's fury and sleeptime's lull,
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I'm just as healthy as ever.
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I'm searching my body for every possible sign
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that the end is coming, that looms my demise.
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And I am in pain, I will admit,
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but not nearly enough to classify myself as sick.
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I'm in a science classroom, with scalpel prodding myself.
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Clean up the experiment, jar me up, return me to the shelf
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in tanager's formaldehyde, amber sleep, sanctioned suicide.
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You haven't really died until you've returned to the earth,
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I think, given back the dust in your bones
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to this planet that insists it be your home.
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You haven't really disappeared
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until your body has dispersed so much
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that nobody can point at the ground and say,
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"The person I love now rests here."
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This vessel, I hope, will not be preserved
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in a morgue, under a man's care, final horror.
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My body was never ever really mine
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in this life.
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Mother still sometimes cries
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that I'm not a doll anymore,
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won't wear dresses anymore.
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Will she keep me around when my body moves nevermore,
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preserved, plasticized,
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mannequin most lifelike?
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Deny me Velouria's embrace one last time?
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</pre>
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</article>]]>
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</summary>
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