you just know it no one can tell you otherwise. I know I hit my little sister in the face with a rock and knocked her out when she was six. I was there threw the rock across the backyard watched her crumple like a ragdoll thrilled at the definition of a parabola nearly visible in midair against the backdrop of birch forest. I can't prove it. But I know it happened. Memory at best is an echo which repeated long enough becomes knowledge. Is my witness alone sufficient? You say you know Jesus. Just . . . you know. You can't prove that any more than I can prove I knocked my little sister the fuck out with a rock. I declare it on my authority. I am the proof of my witness.
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Poems from Other Days
September 2021
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