Register Monday | July 6 | 2020

beating foolish and all around you

New poetry from Tara McGowan-Ross.

EASTER WEEKEND, 2020

After the last time I saw you I lay in bed for a week, coughing,

slipping a disc in my neck. Don’t lie to me and tell me


you didn’t feel it. Here: the spring, like last year. Snowing,

“too late,” on the many confused. We are still so delicate.


I wouldn’t have it any other way but it’s a strange time

to be wanting. If nerves are still impinged in my arm I can say


you’re coming back. This where hunger really lives, I’ve learned:

any part of the body I expect to be filled. It has been hard


to forgive you. You hurt me real bad and I didn’t tell you.

I can hear you saying I didn’t need to lie for you, but I was


lying for me. Plus, don’t I still owe you? I ...

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