Poet Name

Poem Title

You can empty a place of light,
one strip of duct tape,

one blink, one blackout curtain at a time.
I once would have bet you light

couldn’t be packed, couldn’t fill
like salt or memories,

couldn’t be stacked on top
of itself. Couldn’t be wrung out,

like a swimsuit in a water extractor,
the one with instructions

that seem a little like a how-to guide
for medieval torture: see

a heart pressed down a silo,
arms & legs dangle like straps

or twist ties, air swept out
until moisture is

suffocated from the body.
I have no poker face, only win hands

when I ante up on a blind steal.
I guess I have always practiced that drill,

shelter in place as the sirens wail.
When I said, I know that trick,

that riddle asking what fills up
but never weighs down,

you answered, bet, as in
you already know how that punch feels.

 
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