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Mia Prince-Kelly

Lamenter’s Lament


We are wanting in the dark lights, all hunched,

All live, writing in our book

With a tethered sigh 

And wanting a rest, but loving uncontrollably

The pen we move.

Convening and commiserating over past time

And sleep lost, and head fucks, and let downs,

We occasionally admit our fixations

To tumble from our mouths. 

But with adolescent stubbornness schooling us to not-love

And not-praise, we produce in our mind’s eye

The wheel, the perpetuity;

Tired and  wishing to be elsewhere.

Like dew on grassgreen skin, the world about us drips

Drips until it is swarmed into itself, and imperceptible to the touch.


The myth of elsewhere still offers minute glimpses of flesh

The ankle, the nape, the thumb

Teasing us into believing she will come into view.


Yet in small epiphanies we forget her

And feel the unfamiliar sense

That we do perhaps love

That just because we are wanting

And just because we are tired

Does not mean we need to loathe by reflex;

Rather, it means we need to recover and master our infantile skill

Of sobbing and smiling at the same time 

Of loving our world and protesting it.



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