Poem by Jessy Randall   •   Photo by Gary F. Clark
 
 
 
The Weight, the Heat of Love
 
The words slide down from their own weight,
like overburdened refrigerator magnets.
The explosions are adorable. Like a gun
made of playdough. The mother laughs
at the bad word. The children don't know
the names of streets; their geography
works in a completely different way.
When they set up a store they don't know
the prices of things, so I make extravagant
purchases and clear the inventory. They are
so hot when they sleep, burning off all that love.



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