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Kerry Kurdziel 

I Accidentally Read Al Pacino as A.I. Pacino 

I have learned it’s really difficult to dispose of certain things: 

paint, broken glass, old vacuums. 

The pull in my stocking widens and widens 

and I think I recognize the face behind the stocking. 

There is a stained washcloth 

pinched between a door hinge 

and it reminds me that falling out of love 

is like hearing your favorite song at the grocery store. 

I should have left my tab open, 

my blouse on the floor, my hands, 

busy and warm with grief. 


I fear this ache comes from somewhere beyond my bones. 

I see it dangling from the mouths of dogs 

and from the fingertips of infants. 

Sometimes I can see that there is a sunset. 

Sometimes, it’s just another light, 

orange and blinking. 

A torn exit sign. 

Plastered across the horizon.

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Kerry Kurdziel is a poet currently living in the Greater Boston area. Her work has appeared in The Columbia Journal, Muzzle Magazine, and Euphony Journal. Kerry writes about the strangeness of modern life, interiority, and memory. When she is not writing, you can find Kerry trying her hand at woodworking or going to an ABBA cover band concert. 

Bear Review


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