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Poetry The Filth issue

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By Sandra Lim

Yellow and red smoke
Photograph by Amir Esrafili

My friend was born
with six fingers on each hand.
Do I need to tell you

that she is generous?

Whereas I could have bit
my tongue out each time my means
seemed to diminish.

My pride like a golden stag.

Some never feel loved or real, just
goaded,

or thwarted. It is a slow fire in an autumn wood.

My soul does a little
flip in my chest, stands with its back
to the wood.

It wants to watch me struggle, I guess.

It’s leading me some distance away from
my uninteresting remorse,

and into the sweet stupor of absorption, as I fit
myself

to what actually happens in my life.

 

Sandra Lim is a poet from San Francisco who lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Her latest collection of poems is The Curious Thing. She has received the Barnard Women Poets Prize and a Guggenheim Fellowship.