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Mud WantBy Mari Pack Editors' Note: This poem appears in Mari Pack's new chapbook, The Description of a New World (Dancing Girl Press). It was also the subject of this poetry film we published last year. The word gharam in Arabic: a love that burrows, attaches, dies inside. A love that can ruin, will ruin. I will tear this desire out by the root. Caking mud on a face, the mask of being honest. I’m finally being honest. It’s neti, neti not you — but an echo. At least not yet. Grasping wet weeds
out of a reflection puddles of pigment, murky and precise clearing like a curse-bed and I’m not better than wanting myself back. Meanwhile, my father, a sage blind man, third eye winding — tells me, “be kinder to my daughter. She’s nostalgic for Samsara.” Intimacy as an indictment. I can be crueler than this, but if you stay long enough I will open like a flower.
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