The Psychiatrist’s daughter
I am going to ask for a receipt that shows I’m owed
some years, the ones I’ve spent licking the pine
To make it squeak. I felt as though I’d rented him,
my 35 pounds a week would go to you, Laura.
Your fluffy milk curls every week in the picture
on his desk made me feel sick. To think as I was telling
him of the desire to see chaotic blood he thought of you,
what was waiting at home; I was never framed. Of course I was,
but nobody agrees with that. My hand,
like a bird, pecked the life right out, because of months
Of looking at a gilded girl. They found me at the well,
talking about you Laura, the perfumes of Arabia, and how
the soft smashing of your milk teeth felt.
RACHAEL ALLEN
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