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Kate Lutzner

this crayon

is called blue-violet. i guess anything that deep
has blue in it. take the woman, raped for years by her
closest friend. it doesn't matter she was
married to him. though some might think so.
some states do. i lived in one once. a state can be
a tiny house or room or, of course, a way your mind
thinks. mine is quiet about it. so's my body. or it
was, once. once it lay in bed and didn't say anything.
you see, the same man was raping me. i don't tell it
often, but i do. i think voicing makes laudable the truth.
my mother mentions "false memory syndrome" on the
telephone. she read an article about it in the Times.
i'm apt to close out sounds that i despise, cover my
ears at the ambulance approach. the gift of tuning
out, given to me at a young age. but not this
voice, this sound of reason and unreason repeated
like the metronome's beat. my heart has taken a full
dose of poison. the drum in me comes through
my skin, my ears. cut out the cloth, the mask
where eyes, the retreating animal, reside. having done
a search for my mother's phrase, i recoil to the space
where words line the window, hissing accusations.
my outer layer of skin or garment has lost its wool.
doubt, that old dragon, is feeding.


Kate Lutzner  received the Robert Frost Poetry Prize while a senior at Kenyon College. Her poetry has appeared in The Antioch Review, Mudlark, The Squaw Review, Disquieting Muses, Poetry Magazine, The 2River View and Stirring, where she is a poetry editor.  She also has poetry forthcoming in Rattle.  She received her JD from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and is now working at the Discovery Channel.  She lives in Washington, DC.

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