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Body Armor
The bedroom hearthstone
breathes black ice cream
into our shell.
I scuttle on the floes of insomnia
like a conch shell
knocked into the jealous waters.
You sleep soundly.
Maybe we’ll crack open the mudroom door tomorrow
and comb the yard for your mittens.
My yellowed knee
will crawl out of its cast in fourteen days.
The house mumbles something about abandonment.
Copyright ©
Andrew Gallagher
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