Complaint Catalog

by Lucy Tiven

Where were you the first time you found out

someone you slept with was dead? My legs are so long

that everyone expects me to be thin

without driving myself crazy. Hours after

the twin tours collapsed like tired dogs

my mother and I walked home

from 96th street. Terrible, pink smoke rose

over the East River. My tragedy hasn’t happened

yet.      My cancer didn’t have the chance

to become cancer. At night, waiting to hear the car pull in

I think up horrible accidents in the road. My dreams

are filled with devastated weathermen, trash cans on fire

and then I wake to the sound of gravel      scattering wildly

                                                                         through the driveway

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