If We Had a Nickel


You have to be speedy,

                      buy more time.


An eye acts as a barrier, an extra minute

to cling to dull benefit.


                          Repeat a stain,

intense architecture—it’s going to fall.


The day before is dry, down waves

and friction, between strays and static.


Drag your crown, intentional, covered

in light.


A mirror doesn’t contain your name—

a sheen tenfold with tweaks for definition.


Eyes need to fill in gaps, along the camera,

a blush emphatic with everything.


You put three tiny stitches where

you want to hide, mold the shape like a doll.


The mistake is plunging, above go-to art,

         never a slip.


Don’t choose—you will be innocent,

in front of you, your face.



This is an erasure poem. Source material: “The Magic Carpet” by Alexandra Owens. Allure, September 2015, pages 125-127.

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