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CLEAN
poem by T.A. Gorton
art by Myles Leigo
On knees bruised
by repetition,
she wipes away the violent patterns;
bucket-water pale crimson,
murky with life made still.
He was just playing...
She peels the sound of crunching bone
off walls secret-scarred.
In a row of potted plants
she finds his faded blue collar;
it jingles as she pulls it from a withered fern.
She hoists his little body
from her sparkle-white sink--
stiff like frozen cloth--
to zip him into cold plastic.
Just playing with your foot...
Before tracing her path
to the trash bin outside,
she studies each contour of home,
making sure the splatter-marks of rage are gone.
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The High Price of Passion
poem by T.A. Gorton
art by Myles Leigo
He blinks the empty wall,
grin spreading wrinkles smooth.
Champagne-glass-chatter still hangs
lightly, expensive silk ties
have left vapor trails behind.
But the crowds are gone.
They trampled a path to high-rise lives
with pieces of him tucked underarm;
brown paper-wrapped squares of his soul.
Now the painter sits,
a sail emptied of wind
for one frail moment of open sea.
All that remains are drops of color
along the cracked cement floor,
and a pocketful of checks.
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