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Mark Jackley




               Broken Family 



Broken mouth too. Broken vocabulary. 

Tomorrow when I speak it will be my heart whistling 


through a hole that opens in my throat, a song I heard 

in a country cemetery where the dead of war rise up 


as little American flags. All cloth, no stick. Top-heavy. 

They looked like seagulls wobbling by a dumpster far from water,


flapping in a language only they could understand, wondering what exactly

the deal is with the wind.











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