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The Meek Shall Inherit the Earth

He’s high on meth, made in the back room of a blue
rambler at the edge of a clear-cut, one mile from town.
He twitches and waits, twitches and waits.

She’s stuck to a mirror in the Chevron bathroom, counting
freckles, pimples, dimples her Dad loved
to pinch when he came home weekends
from the woods, smelling of fir, gas, two-stroke
oil, brush fire, campfire, three cans of Budweiser for the drive.

While the boyfriend waits outside, she forgets she came here to puke.
Her stomach knots, knuckles of a logger, her dad’s hand pushing
back the recliner, watching The Price is Right, waiting for the foreman’s
call, waiting for work, waiting for the sound of a CB crackling,
an engine shifting, brakes hissing louder than the door
slamming, his daughter disappearing between broken
logging trucks down a dirt road to the edge of a clear-cut.

Stuck to the mirror in the Chevron bathroom, she remembers
again, but nothing comes out, bile settles behind her teeth,
no money for gum, boyfriend in the parking lot
has cigarettes, she remembers
boyfriend in the parking lot.
He twitches and waits, twitches and waits.


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