ERICH

by Elizabeth Switaj

 

 

I heard my hands
were yellow, and in the lines I could feel
deeper, like tea

I never knew what any of that means
if colors have smells
then yellow lingered in front of my face

when I held up my sweet
tobacco-scented hands against the heat
—a waste, I burned

anyway
I was already dead

when courts decided I could live
in a factory-home—I could not work

my commitment had come
to an end

 

 

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