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Glass Potions

By C. L. Liedekev

In the end,
it’s the house that suffers,
the oak floor, built of burnt
barn ruin, of my grandfather’s
hands holding the house
in his sweat and swears
every Sunday, still wearing
his church suit pants swung
low, dragging the dry survivors
through the back door,
in mock Christ walk, deeds
driven as dirty feet rest
in splinters, soft in ache,
in cast gout. Shirts slips
across forehead, stains
the white, he summons
the fridge open, alights spells
along the glass potion,
cold goes into clear mind,
drops distance deep
in the generic pull,
the memory of the gunner,
his brown hair blowing
in the gape across
body of the bomber.
His bottom half blown
lose like a bottle broke
open, edges ragged
and wet and unforgettable.

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