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Hold on tight.
This is going to hurt like hell.
Run right through you
stick pin clean.
It’s like that,
in the moment of forgetting
when you begin to stop hating.
It starts with loosening the strings,
awkward tug,
the beginning of the need to explain.
This is going to hurt like hell
as you pass through slugs of warm beer, cigarette smoke
and that small cracked window
into a microclimate
powered by parades, movies and mysteries,
a hot spot,
a boardwalk built on a foundation of aspirations never met.
This is where the demagogue of eight year olds and his internecine affections live
This is going to hurt like hell:
like a finger in a car door,
like tinfoil on a filling,
like splinters in a glory hole.
This is the blast site
where you need to set the charges.
The integrity of the picture won’t hold much longer
and there is limited time
to put some daylight
between the photo albums and your future.
Use your fingers to find the fuse.

 


Shannon Quinn lives in Toronto. Her work has appeared in The Literary Review of Canada, Etchings, Maisonneuve, Existere, Subterrain and here in Halfway Down the Stairs.

© 2012, Shannon Quinn

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