Poetry
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Like Ian

Like Ian
Words by A.A. Reinecke

It is cold like a prison like Antarctica gray
and on the folded bit a dribbling of blood
the shape of: Minnesota.
St. Paul. That’s where he’s from.
St. Paul. It is noon now.
That was breakfast.
The room was a sideboard with bits of fractured
glass. The windows spoke in
tongues or through lust strained in milk.
Q: Do you love me?
A: I don’t know.
Chai was sweet grain melted
like the wetness of my mouth
and your tongue tasted still like Ian and
his carpet and his gin like a plow for planting
prohibition.
Q: The flask?
A: No.
My plastic cup membrane shed quartz
like history nabbed from a headband.
The 1920s.
Q: You eating? Coffee? Anything?
A: No. St. Paul. That’s where he’s from.
St. Paul.

Photo credit: Brandon Yung

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