NEW FEATHERS ANTHOLOGY
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Stockings
Brian Dickson


​Forgive me
for embracing you
so late in life.


As a young Jehovah’s Witness
you only existed 
as sad things with holes,


imagined lumps
of coals dangling
at the bottoms, pieces
to chalk doomed
sidewalks.


Now, from the mantel
I want Neruda in your 
knit-pits, scribbling odes


to calves, heels, magic
of arches, love
between toes.
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