by Olivia Dudding Rodriguez
It is as immovable as February snow, as clay, becomes stone: the stain from my bleach bottles resting in
the trunk of my Ford Taurus,
from a blink ago when I kept it
always in arms reach
to wipe down the doorknobs,
to wipe up the exhale
to wipe out the invisible living,
but now they linger there
useless and unstable as
a bad omen, kissing the fibers
of my trunk like sinister evidence.
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