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Charles Kell



Headless statues float in a broken

open Cornell box, past last call.


In a small room off the water,

wind burns through empty bottles


making neon green headstones

that stare back from the window-sill.


Even before your brother died,

you felt like an only child crawling


in the dark. Under the bed you shared

for twelve years he built a herbarium,


cigarette butts planted on the periphery

with faces drawn over them. This


was your family. To lure the stricture

away, clouds inside the closet, shirts


shrink over your scratched shoulders.

About the Writer

      Charles Kell is a PhD student at The University of Rhode Island and editor of The Ocean State
. His poetry and fiction have appeared in The New Orleans Review, The Saint Ann’s
Review, IthacaLit, The Pinch, and elsewhere. He teaches in Rhode Island and Connecticut.

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