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Mine’s Not A Political Heart

Mine’s Not A Political Heart

All of my childhood fantasies–icescapes
with Alaskan cranes, treasure diving
in the Black Sea–Putin has beat me to them.

He drapes a medal over his shadow,
then extradites the dead from purgatory.
I live with this deadweight of humor

and scorn until the humor burns out.
I know my birthmarks aren’t heraldic,
the sunspots transcribed don’t form

a line of sheet music. Blinking, I kill
a group of gnats, I kill only to see clearly.
Give me refuge from that sentence,

freedom from the choir sanctioning.
Each day the grail looks more like a chalice,
each day, the chalice more like a mug.

Maya C. Popa holds degrees from Barnard, Oxford University, and NYU. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Kenyon Review, Fence, and FIELD.

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Posted in From the Magazine, Poetry

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