Jasper Kennedy


The part of you that lets you cry, one of
them at least, is a branch from the same
three-headed twin sprouting from your
brainstem like a god’s child that
lets you feel the drag of a
fingertip on your cheekbone, 
lets you hold a sunflower seed between
two molars and crack it open,
lets a pigeon align with the planetary
magnetism and find its way home, 

and after its mortar-pestle crushing
by a mass on just the one side,
what’s left is a wet right sleeve,
tail-light red branching through one sclera,
a tingle and a stiffness on the left
half of your face as tears roll down the other, 
a bird flying around in circles, trying to get back
to where it was before.

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