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This poem is taken from PN Review 239, Volume 44 Number 3, January - February 2018.

Stepping, dreeping Richard Price
Losing the word love

I
need so
much better  
for you Mum. No,
I will say ‘Mother’  

to respect the laughter  
and Star Trek transfers which glow
green/yellow long seconds after
the light switch clicks and the dark you know

is held by gifts to this small child off school –
a broken eardrum, was it, or ‘daymare flu’?
I can’t say love – that word’s too many kinds of true –
catch-all for like, for lust, breaker of its own proud rule:

that love’s select. Love’s too full. I’ll love you until I die.



Choke risk

I
have not
finished yet.
The air is hot,
thick with kapok, debt,

this choke risk. I exist
...


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