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lottery :: hafizah geter

by on March 31, 2017

“It isn’t fair,” she said. A stone hit her on the side of the head.
–Shirley Jackson, “The Lottery”

if the birds were not black
crickets upon
further inspection,

I would wake for the scent
of pine trees.
if the choice were not
always between mercy
or forgiveness,

laundry would dry
completely. if the body was
more than wood jarred
in brine,

the moon would stay
isosceles. if I could diagram
the grammar of a motive,

I could empty
this shoebox. if geometry
were no longer
in the arc but the meter,

i would pray to this round shape
i’ve locked
in my hands.
if the lilies were not
bearing their stamens

like wolves,
is this the only way to be
happy?

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From → poems

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