Margaret LeMay: Those Are Bright,
Past Errors, & Symptom is being

Those Are Bright

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This was the early-on of it: felt
full watching oneself stuck as a grass
blade in teeth. Walks the plaid and thinks of you
still, your right and diagnosable

wishes when pressed we wet to the thighs, the can’t even
reinventing this if not virgin, dug in,
divided wins money for life, with both sides
unsure when it became that. Because were I your

chatter, failure, addiction; feeds if not/fosters was
I not your. Coiled, corded, sucks the early-on, eagerly

What strange left behind: dreaming you even
as the tulips tight in the late, coarse
snow is the suggestion
I need to run straight to the bed, flat, hands

easily. Sometimes it’s comes simply, wouldn’t have
happened had you not done
was wanted, was righted stars up from
the truck the throat
clouded, which no longer shells eggs or tears into
its own childhood.

Past Errors

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Can’t help but reference the spotted hands daily:
truth but for that one additional part via
attraction going nowhere you left out.
Now you’re increasingly without sense of how

you’d even. You don’t belong there. You
are muscles, tan, in loose cotton half-
tucked, or half-un-tucked, mis-tucked like when
he’s learning to recover, re-cover his own

parts and the waistband ends rumpled.
Like a little old man. Is what you look like,
in your shorts, fitting nothing a decade
shared, overlaps, but you’re intention

dropped at the loop, skips the rope;
if gravity stopped being. Stopped hurt.
Stopped the blood right in its shared gene
socket and this, something you do, even as

you’ve given it up. By half. Half-time, half
hail in the night. When steps approaching
the back door is your own blood pulse.
Yours is not where anyone will be looking.

Symptom is being

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sincerely unaware of wrong. Way Off. Grasps
the reason for the stages is the hyper-now:
an edge, stuff, music, little bowls
behind and in front: alone for the rest of lying
the creases press into the cheek,
under the eye. Don’t turn your face upside
bad living still smoking, being

different only in that increasingly could
pure money give not much other

than to protect the fellow
mother, for whom this information makes
much. Stops, one day. The reality eating

the child’s inspection: your mouth
“Deep!” your ear canal “Sensitive!” your
nose the last “Complicated!” Yes.
But know “Your room looks just fine”
as masturbatory moments
fall into the sections of ill and not ill,
of balance, or needs less night alcohol.

Kills a firefly easily. Because
the Mason jars are elsewhere, are giving
up nothing without a fight, which is no
longer worth it. Yes, work. Yes, ducking.

This we know. Why
your own house, from the parking
pad, from the stone placemat
weeds, bricks, lichen slats are we

are better able to happy.
You don’t doubt it. A lot living in
the darkest pits of the library
has scheduled starts and fits on seven-day
repeat, is on drive or is lost.


ART: Teri Frame, Line Kallmayer

FICTION: Matt Dojny, Jessica Halliday, Corey Zeller

NONFICTION: Brandel France de Bravo, Line Kallmayer, Ben Merriman, Nicole Walker

POETRY: Mary Jo Bang, Sam Cha, Ching-In Chen, Natalie Eilbert, John Estes, Jessica Fjeld, Margaret LeMay, Nina Puro, Lauren Russell, Dara-Lyn Shrager, Donna Stonecipher, Henry Walters, Kerri Webster, Betsy Wheeler

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