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Got my finger on it

Ju Derraik

My mother holds my hand but flickers from joint to joint. 

She pokes and pushes and presses and does not rest 

my hand in hers, and so does not rest.

 

I’ve been spending the time 

she spent in acupuncture school fingering 

through mixmaster ads in old LIFE magazines and thinking 

about my own Mystique. I speak less

 

than I listen. I think more than I did

about the people who print me pictures and squeeze my knuckles. 

I think (more or less) that I’ve got morals, that I’d have fancied 

Miss Billie Jean King.

 

The battle of the sex is 

remembering that I can rest

my wrists here on my ribs no matter how sticky. It’s tricky:

thinking. Quite the fickle ordeal,

but at least I know now 

 

where I learned to name Problems.

 

Perhaps the point is pressure;

perhaps in jotting these here lines I’ve crossed the 

threshold of thinking into 

something less Crimson, more Clover.

And less is more I guess, so 

 

I’ll pick a lover 

who (more or less) gets that 

reference and I’ll stop the thinking 

 

at that.  

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