Kim Addonizio reads
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the bride of gin, bride of men you followed home & let fuck you only to discover that they already had a woman, a woman who would never know what you had done with her man, never know what a shit she was married to, you were enamored of impulse, tearing flower heads from sidewalk squares that had converted from cement to soil. How pure your longing to be anything other than yourself. How difficult to extricate the stem, to hold only the scattering, brooding petals & how you longed for that stem. Little former whore, self-you-have-almost-outgrown, think of Clytia, pining for Apollo, her whole face turned toward an idea of heaven. Think of the faces turned toward you now, as you recite from the myth you have made, all of them listening to you. Of all flowers: you.