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By Pat Anthony
Kinnell hides on the bottom shelf
wedged against the ubiquitous Rubaiyat
of Omar Khayyam and someone remaindered
before the covers could even curl.
She haunts dusty dumps like this to find
clues, premonitions, anything she can
to tell herself There is Still Time…. She
first memorized that one in college
and carries it with her against the funeral
card from her Daddy’s wake—the one
with the magic Jesus with the five things she
can never name hidden in his face. In the store
she didn’t take time to even page the book, just
grabbed it like an oar for the drowning.
She’s always spiraling down but she knows when
to reach out now across the whirlpool. So she drives
halfway across two cities on the off chance
she could stack these tomes
high enough beside the bed to forget how
even though someone else is there it’s just her
and whatever words she will race through
as she runs and runs