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Objet Trouvé

December 26, 2007

Yellow paper blackened by flies.
Vibrations indicate a breather.

I’m mesmerized by objects
my neighbors throw away.

My trash is predictable.
Just once I’d love to discover something
I didn’t intend to leave on the heap,
something more intriguing than
lemon peels, coffee grounds.

Where does one keep second thoughts?
Misgivings? As a girl, I found
a nest on the ground, and inside,
three cracked eggs leaking gold.
My mother’s insistent fingers
tightened on my wrist: There are things
we don’t touch because they are filthy.

In my hand, the flypaper hums, holding on.

by Jayne Pupek

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  1. December 29, 2007 at 11:05 am

    Jayne, this poem has continued buzzing in my ears since I first read it – perhaps because I too am someone who notices the anomalies in the trash and checks the flypaper for the living. You’ve written about these small observances poignantly, and conveyed the sense of genuine disturbance they create. Thanks.

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