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Updated: Apr 12, 2023

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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