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fruit fly epilepsy

Julia Glazebnik

the berries are 

bursting out of their

cardboard cartons. let me say it

like i mean it—in the water

your left foot lies lame 

and there is something like blood 

all over my hands. 

it is more liquid than lover, 

and on my back all i can hear 

is blame: you made him 

thirst, and then not me, 

the heat. but none of it is 

all that different and by now you 

should know there is always a way 

to blame it on the summer, or 

the blush creeping up my back.

pushed against the metal cushion, 

i am trembling like just-born 

flesh, but it is no new 

revelation, and your calves 

have been rusting so long 

that i have started using your name

in place of the word knife. 

just outside sacramento, 

can you believe it, my cheeks

are going lilac, not clover, 

and i am so far from 

the old house i can almost forget 

my hands, like fish out of water,

and the things you swore 

would wait for me 

out east. i am growing

smaller, and sadder,

in a way this is all i mean to say—

the berries, like blood, the way

we were all the same shade of blue,

and all of the ugly parts of me 

on my back. i am shrugging,

but even you can tell it starts and ends

with hunger. i am searching up synonyms

for salvation, but all i can find is static, and

i do not have the stomach to tell you

you must already know, and even god

knows blooming is work, not nature.

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