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What Became of Us All

Claire Bowman

crumbling throat of the sphinx:
you still do it for us.
taking photographs
and wishing for just one
peek into the oracle
I’ll settle for a thimble
of Egyptian sand

my skin is jumpy
be careful, there’s cyanide in an apricot pit
there’s nothing wrong with admitting
I am a witness that Loch Ness exists,
plus a bird told me.

oh, where the spume has been
green sick from the bacteria
of many countries 
infested clouds try to hold it in
but darlin’ it’s gonna rain soon
(screws in
my left knee creak)

We never quite figured out how to
use the word blunderbuss in a poem.
N took her money and ran.
My breasts never filled out.
I heard that D let his beard grow and moved
West to explore the Northern latitudes.
A—did you ever smoke a cigarette on
a rollercoaster? I hope you’re defined. Burning.
Me? Black irises line the back porch of my mind.
They smell of anise and summer.
I am miles from here.