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by
Alan Catlin
Love?
We were walking
along a beach and found an old object that appeared to have
washed up on shore. There was no date anywhere on it that we could
find. Inside were
just a few objects; a loaded six shot hand gun, a neatly wrapped
packet of girlie
magazines and some rumpled aluminun foil which once may have contained
something
of value. Also, oddly, there was a picture of my exact twin brother
standing on this very
beach with a black patch over his right eye. His face is inscrutable.
I never recall seeing
him like this before. This must be a form of love.
The
Sore Thumb
A blue thumb nail is a bruised corona, a dark plain,
white speckles like stars are
haloed in. Looking deeper, a red line, jagged and fissured, is turning
colors, transformed
as Martian canals are by solar winds, coated by dust. Following
the fault line over
polished enamel layered as thick textured skins, hardened as armor
made brittle by
contact, leads toward a softer tissue, lesions scarred over, preserving
what is inside, as
snow would cover a foreign body embedded within a block of black
ice.
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