Weekend At Home


your death shaves my legs, it whistles
whatever this bow shoots must fall
and What does my mother see?

we make love on the armchair, nothing
is left  the armchair but our fingers

my neighbors saw your death
in the backyard eating
a sandwich, writing the Greek alphabet
on the sandwich, on a wall

we paint each other’s toes
we paint faces in the dictionary
your death picks out my hat, lays
it down on the unmade bed


Sam Samson lives in Las Vegas where she is currently working on her MFA in poetry at UNLV.


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