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Bibbed in Paisley He Reads Žižek Instead

of pulling September’s steak tips from
a bag of peas in the freezer. On his lips

one hundred blue petals, dried flowers
from the bottom of a former lover’s vase.

He licks his fingers, touches the hairs
of milled tree trunk in each page.

I wait, a flood runs from my mouth complete
with a rusted Honda Civic—the windows

all busted. My veins sprout to link my temples
to an electric socket. I black out and then

the most angelic resurgence of light. …
He tells me I have become

an example of Žižek—The unreal, we are
fascinated by the unreal. I reach for my back

molar, turn it to the right and braid
my hair. If I am unreal, I whisper, you must

be as real as my hair, which I will cut
with these scissors. You tell me: Cut it

short. I’ve always wanted to know if I could make
love to a boy I’ve always known was a woman.

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