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Ice Cream Sunday

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Whiskey does somersaults on his breath,
his pupils spill out over his irises
as he picks his way through the hall,
feet tup-tupping against the checkered
linoleum of the kitchen floor, his fists
clenched around the air like drumsticks,
playing a drum solo on his wife's
porcelain body. She shatters like an
ice cream cone that was released
from the grasp of the swollen eyed toddler
with ribbons in her hair, tears falling to
the ground to mix with the melted ice cream.
Whiskey doing somersaults on his breath,
he remembers, wrapping his ghost spider
fingers around the frigid ebony bars
of his cage, he remembers his wife
melted on the floor like ice cream,
her body shattered like the waffle cone,
in a puddle of blood and tears like
melted ice cream, released from his grasp.




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