06.10.04: New design. Got rid of the art and tape trading sections since I don't really trade
anymore. Lots of new poetry.
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I
In fourth grade, David said
the worst way to die was to freeze
to death. In tenth grade,
he was shot seven times, laid out
in blood pooling beneath
him on the icy sidewalk. His lip stuck
to the ice when
they lifted him onto the stretcher.
II
Wrapped in fat jackets and gloves, Justin
and I slid down his slick driveway
on our stomachs. His mother
saw and sent us to the store for bags of
salt. We sprinkled them on the driveway
the next day and
then again a week later
on David’s grave.
III
Justin traced his fingers down my
side where my ribs
stick out. His birthday was
five days before mine. There was
cake in the refrigerator. I took his
hand and kissed his fingertips,
looking up his
track marked arm.
IV
Kneeling on the tile of
the bathroom, I held in my hands a
bleach bottle, opened it,
smelled it— to wish Justin
a happy birthday and sterile
needles in the next life,
just in case there is one.
--Molly Herrick 11.20.03
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