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Paul Ferrell

Spitting Blood-Soaked Cotton

Spitting blood-soaked cotton from the passenger window of her car.

Shopping for tomato bisque, cans of soup, ice cream cake on sale.

A picture in black and white, not you entirely, but you complete.

A girl with a beehive smile gapped teeth.

The fetus does not match the corpse.

There are many stages in between.

She asked me if she had been a good mother.

I was tempted to remind her of the time she punched me at the mall.

I bled all over the Christmas gift. 

Anger gives you cancer.

We live a different life in its cell.

There is no cooling beneath hot trees, no shame, no blame, nor error.








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