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It’s like condemning the sky

for being blue; though never

spoken, your name flits

through my head, like a bird

that got into the house.

Nothing can drown us,

stop our breath like

the undeniable strangeness

of the familiar.

For why – why must the

familiar play a game

of spades,

with the free heart.

My sister,

everything was plastic

and your name’s uninvited

presence hung over me

like that blue sky,

crushing the world into a ball

with its heaviness.

 

 

Michael T. Smith is an Assistant Professor of English who teaches both writing and film courses.  He has published over 150 pieces (poetry and prose) in over 80 different journals.  He loves to travel.

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