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“The actor is an athlete of the heart.”

Antonin Artaud


by Catherine Bresner

What an ordinary wound this is
that I poke-poke with grubby
fingers tending to the past.

I stand near the bathroom mirror
a naked wet shadow
against the shower curtain scrim
of a forest that I stand in.

To believe in a thing is to nurse
a small baby in the brain until that
baby grows up to resent you for living
the way that you do. Still, what a comfort

to believe in Jesus, for instance, caspering
around our houses, nudging our tender elbows
off the table. We can be such delicious liars.

I prayed like hell in the hospital
& it wasn’t your fault that the party
was fucking awesome.
& It’s not my fault
you couldn’t handle your shit.
Everyone was there
& then they weren’t.
We lived by accident,
& then only sometimes.


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