Matt Bell

Her flatness exactly what every father expects.

What every boy demands. A painted surface, a hole

behind the cardboard. Whoever makes her whole

is made up in the make up. We’ve lusted after such

abstraction our entire life. She has a name and

her name is Redacted. We fill every blank space

with ourselves. Whatever lover she was before

we scoop out, set aloft. You’re free, we whisper

above her chains, this series of shapes marching

loose across the page. Until only this shell remains.

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