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Vee Amey

Vee Amey is an MFA poet from New England. Her work has appeared in Tin House, Pleiades, Hobart, Juked, Rhino and other literary journals. She lives with her husband and four rescue Pitbulls.

Jacob’s Mom Mails Him a 24 Karat Choker from China to Ward off Our Drug Dealer

The three of us are inside drinking coffee.
June rain is so heavy it sounds like
books dropping off edges of clouds.
Ryan is wearing a rainbow t-shirt (because of the rain I assume)
and Jacob’s hair is pressed so black-flat he looks like a book jacket.
Ryan gives each of us a book with 16 of his poems.
Someone (maybe me) said, “If I could capture our darkness in my palm, I’d let it go.”
Someone (maybe Jacob) drew a man in his hospital bed shooting at stars with a gun.
We don’t know who the man in the bed is but it looks like the bearded man
Ryan does not want to talk about (June rain is inside of us).
“A fist craves a bottle and the pride of a rose falls from a knife.” Jacob says
he doesn’t know what any of that means yet he was the one who wrote it in red marker.
Years ago we decided home is relief from pain or the way a bandage smothers a wound.
Years ago our memories faded to the color of tombstone.
Years ago we decided Narcotics Anonymous was not working for any of us.
Maybe that is why Ryan is wearing his ketamine jeans today (if not for the rain).
Maybe that is why none of us have deleted Ray Ray’s phone number.
Maybe that is why Ryan handed us a book of Godzilla poetry that has no imagery in it.
Maybe that is why Jacob hangs gold Buddha around his throat.
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