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title
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Clara Howell


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A Stranger in His Own Home

Peek through the curtain
of his home, peel back the purple
rhodies and really look at the way
he spits on his daughter's chest.
The way he yells to his son
love me better.

Did you see the brown
rhodies crumble against the pane,
a puddle of heart-shaped dust
scatter across the window sill?

If he were to open his clenched
fist, just for a moment, maybe
he would feel the sharp edges
of a dying flower, the severed
heads from the mothering rhododendron
dry out under his incandescent light.