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The Interdisciplinary Work of Lyss England

For years,

you and I would
find a spot
in the corners of
the bathroom floor
legs folded
into impossible positions
a demented form of comfort.
I still sit that way.
At seventeen,
I sang a song
“here I am not, seventeen
trying to beat your record
nothing but a teenage whore
lying on the bathroom floor
Mama, take me with you”
– a shrill cry
about how you weren’t
on the bathroom for
not with me
not at all anymore
and I smoked.
I still smoke.
Now,
blue and gold pack
the fan sucking in the smoke
while I sit
and breathe
and sing to you
so you may hear what I hear
taste the smoke from my cigarette
fit with your legs
entwined through mine
impossibly still.
We celebrate,
the way that you are alive
because I carry you
in my identical legs
and my identical lungs
and the way that I am alive
because I choose it to be so
because only those that stay dead
shall remember death.
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