e. v. noechel |
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Psychic Hotline Tanka
From Vault
The phone call eats 4-in-the-morning fears, but cannot swallow whole, vomits molded wax and fingerprints that smear a deck of cards. She talks in watery words that gather like tearstains on cotton. They disappear faster than they happen, a quicksilver slide. Cards without context mean very little or so I lie dead among clubs and spades, spit out a laugh like broken teeth. Hang up. Click. |
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