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When the TV arrived the Directors
portended no blinking. Still, I am trying
to shut my eyes— unhook

the little sinewed hooks— The nose
pressed to the cornea’s dream, all Technicolor,
is ingrown. The head sticks— The wires

are fixed, are done / me in-
to the screen; so fat with copper
my pupils now, the circuit
is not closed, is breached.

And it’s true that the tongue, the speak
is planted— These roots / are foreign, are
not my lay— And one must have some sense

of one’s making— The killing hand,
chevalier—by ether carriage drawn—
It sees what I am, but still, (oh dolor am I)

won’t change me. I know
that this time I’ll hack
right open—a mouth but not
where the mouth should be—

Sophie Weiner is a poet from Baltimore, Maryland. She is the poetry editor for New Limestone Review at the University of Kentucky. Her poems have appeared in Runestone and White Stag.

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