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"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

LindaAnn LoSchiavo


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Golden Shovel: Ten

— after Neal Bowers

When I was ten, he forgot me at the butcher, inevitably careless.
I met strangers' eyes with the rapture of recognition, whether man
or teenager, until proven wrong. Eventually, a policeman took my
hand, cradling our soup bones with unremitting care — like a father
in training. Afterwards, the stench of bloody sawdust always
reminded me of abandonment. I ate less and less, leaving
my meals and my solidity behind, slowly becoming a ghost. The me
who was ten years old grew another self who appeared at
will, an impostor rehearsing departure, thumbing rides at bus-stops or rest-stops.



Source poem: "Tenth-Year Elegy" by Neal Bowers (1990)
Opening lines used: "Careless man, my father, / always leaving me at rest-stops,"