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Sophia Rose Smith

Colored ripe and stumbling— caught

further and back down stream. You've found your way

between notebook lines, past the margins, (college-ruled),


loosened the blue stripes with a seam ripper.

Hair braided and pushed into your palm— your fingers

rip between the three fat trunks in search of equilibrium:


chunky velvet and glass noodles. You’ve fleshed out

the whorls in your hands, left prints of ink in the fresh


snow. By autumn the marks in the mirror seem to dehaze

delusions, caught in the blindspots between 

streetlamps and gutters. Beneath skin is paler flesh


to fit their crayon colors. It can be scrawled in 

a waxy film on printer paper, but that can be scraped away

with fingernails. You’ve fought your way pounding the


waterfalls upstream. Caught: you ripped up the balance

of their symmetry. You will find a place in the world and how 

to speak it. Find it in the full words buttressed behind your teeth.

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