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CHRISTINA HAUCK


APHASIA

I'm always biting my tongue on the question of
too much or too little, as at the laundromat
watching the old man crumple to the floor.

Too much wine, I judged. Or too little food.
But turned back to the task of matching socks,
remembering the dog I'd seen that morning.
She'd been hit once, thrown between two lanes.
When I confess I feel more for the dog than
the man, my arms fly up. Everyone I tell says,
it's OK, but I don't believe them. I watched
four cops converge on him and continued folding
sheets as if the symmetry of linen were justice.

I stumbled, carrying laundry back to my car.
Torn by what I do and what I know.
Powerless to accuse or defend.
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This poem appeared in the Poetry Flash.

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