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Fowl

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The girl from Scarborough liked being slapped
Down the hall from where her mother slept.

A big, hard-working hand, anybody’s
To come medicinally down, antibody

To the slow infection of   her Western face
(what sucked the most was that it wasn’t fast).

Some birds don’t migrate. Above, two lonely fowl
Scream across the sky their only vowel.

This river I step in is not the river
I stand in. We’ll drive to Leslieville, wherever,

Park in the Guildwood GO lot and get stoned.
Who’s there? Nay, answer me. Stand

And unfold yourself. Her heart begins to pound.
No geese go winging to the rooky pond

No goslings disappear their small and speckled.
If we endure this, it will make us special.

Source: Poetry (December 2012)

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This poem originally appeared in the December 2012 issue of Poetry magazine

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Fowl

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