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Poetry Corner With Alanna Duffield

Morning After Pill 

I want every little thing to be beautiful. But
it’s May and I can’t stop it from raining. I get a look
from the pharmacist. The second time in one month. 

How deeply I long to walk out into the downpour
and have it rinse me of a small girl’s shame 

that still thrives like bacteria under my nails. 

I want my mother, as always. I imagine she is handing me
the package over the counter, her large hands soft
in this gesture. I imagine I am small and sugar coated. 

Pearly white. 

Dissolvable.   

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