Poem by Priscilla Becker


 

prism

                    incriminate me
my letters as small as a sore
     I will be
                quarantined, lies
and rhymes
                stripped from my pockets
jailed — inedible plate slipped
through the hole, voices
                plundered of their faces
I will live
beneath the secret life
                that’s kept from me

 

Priscilla Becker: “Recently asked on the street the fake question rendered several times a day: How are you ? Granting an honest answer, I was told I ain’t a normal New Yorker — clearly the stranger had no interest in truth. Being a typical cliche would’ve been positive to her; her irritation was praise to me.”

TJ Edson is the Art Director of Oddball Magazine.

 

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