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Sheila Gonnsen

Broke her name by saying it many ways,
Such rough tones and sarcastic love. He rots
On a bottle green corduroy couch, with two cigarette
Burns in the dying velvet Arms — Dying Velvet
Encasing a heart-charm, untouched on shelf
Next to copper urn of mom. No ashes
Can escape this room where cradlesongs
Are sung by sports announcers… Telecasters
Rock baby asleep but couldn’t quite burp or feed.
Curious bird perched on sill of baby’s cage.
But trapped is desolate soul — in soiled pampers like rotten
Fate of future backhands, background static lullabies.