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Self-Portrait as the Nurse in Eisenstaedt's "Kiss"


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Legless, armless, faceless, the boys to me
came, and still coming. Most have kept their brains,
but some—the small holes in their heads I swab
with balls of cotton. Doctor Ritt, his hands
all the time on my thigh, I’ll report him,
sterile fat man. An end here, love has won
the world, with bombs. The pulse, the pressure, beats.
"Someone give me a drop!" shouts a matron.

She grabs my neck with ringed fingers and bites
my cheek. A sailor hands her a bottle,
then he kisses me. Today, we’re all old friends.
Find Donna here in Times Square? Walls of heaven
crumble from our dance. A wet rag's not enough
for scrubbing hate away. My lips, my lips.


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post #227
bio: john ball
perma-link
4/2/2008
09:50

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April - National Poetry Month 2008

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Please Support My Run in the NYC Marathon
A Fortunate Age (trailer)
Albums. Landlines. Square television.
I don't love anything, not even Christmas
My favorite place in the world
How do you Plea?





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