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Sunday, Oct. 23, 2011


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This town has no sugar, no taste.
I can't hear right, saw some berry bushes
far from here, moved over, wandered over
because sister wouldn't fight, couldn't kick back,
kept saying leave me alone. I threw an orange at her head.
Didn't feel bad, never felt bad,
but the berries, so red, the thorns looked good.

I go anywhere sister doesn't, she's such a sheep baabaabaa
I'm seeing hair on my legs, in my armpits, growing darker
I don't know why my skin turned red,
sweaty and dust covered. I was baling.

I wanted to be a worm
eat all the dead bones,
to make sister fear.
But near the river I saw one,
and it was so naked and small, a milking kitten.

Now it's different. I only want
no sun. To bury it all.

Here though, I'm stuffing myself with berries, thinking about
how I hate white: chalk, tissues, sister's trimmed lilies.
I begin kicking off heads with my tennis shoe.
Felt like a mean drunk cloud, dirty cloud.

Kristin Ravel, originally from rural Michigan, has earned her MFA at Columbia College Chicago. She is currently attending the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, pursuing her PhD in English with an emphasis in Composition and Rhetoric. Her writing has appeared in publications, including Poets and Artists, Columbia Poetry Review, elimae, and Big Lucks.