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The midget

on 13th street

tries to put her briefcase on the ledge.

Her arms hurt from reaching.

She says to herself:

“this world just doesn’t fit me.”

In Mt. Pleasant,

Monica finds a familiar looking dog

dragging his tail

and himself.

He’s all alone.

Upstairs an apartment is empty,

the classic ‘tv blaring and lights on.’

Monica pets the dog.

They try to find his owner

and don’t even notice

the ambulance barreling by

and can’t hear the gunshots

still ringing in the dog’s ears.

Two days later

tears travel down their

cheeks, neck-

the path of a lover’s tongue-

down their breaking hearts,

at a candlelight vigil

for the dog’s owner.

I’m spinning in a jet-lagged fog,

screaming in a war-fatigued frenzy

at the peace march

on Constitution Avenue.

Reminded by constant death.

Been attacked by monkeys and wild horses

in September

and by your memories,

when your passing should have already passed me.

What I need,

is freedom from loving you-

I just don’t got the grace anymore.

I’d like to believe

your love for me was larger

than your body

could contain

and in my grief

I shouldn’t limit it

to the confines of the body.

But you’ve set me spinning.

And I just can’t stop,

lookin’ north and south

east and west

good and bad,

I’m lookin’ in circles

lookin’ for home

between the Afghan chaddar on my head

and the skirts on my legs.

This was the year that I missed having my garden,

missed my marigolds,

missed my 2-feet high basil,

missed my cherry tomatoes,

missed a part of myself

which never took.

I remember the midget,

and philosophize:

this world just doesn’t fit me,

this skin just doesn’t fit me.

I’m too big for my heart.