by Beth Woodcome
This morning the three dogs shat
on the floor and that’s what I woke to.
Before I even woke my body took itself
in, took it in like an immediate mother would.
Not every mother, but let’s get back to you.
One dog is now sleeping at my feet.
I know how that feels, that shame.
This is my sixty-seventh postcard.
Each time, when I say
I wish you were here
I mean to say I don’t know if you’re real
or intend to hurt me by having a body I can’t get to

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