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Abby Caplin

abby.jpgAbby Caplin’s poems have appeared in Alyss, apt, Burningword, Canary, Catamaran, Dunes Review, Love’s Executive Order!, McNeese, Mudlark Flash, Paragon, Salt Hill, TSR: The Southampton Review, These Fragile Lilacs, Third Wednesday, and Tikkun, among others. Abby is a nominee for the 2018 Sundress Best of the Net Award, an award recipient of San Francisco Poets Eleven 2016, and a finalist for the 2015 Anna Davidson Rosenberg Poetry Award. She is a physician and practices Mind-Body medicine in San Francisco. Her website is


I want my L.A. childhood
like I want a Winchell’s
donut, because someday
when I’m dying,
I’ll squeeze
all the Fig Newtons hanging

from Hollywood palms
in my fists
and Gordon’s Corner
Market aisles will be packed
with Sno Balls.
At Winchell’s window

I’ll order a glazed
cruller and sink my teeth
into dough so fresh
it’s a sin, and since
I’m dying, why not rub
that chocolate

cream-filled beauty
onto my décolletage?
Like Alice’s “drink me”
I’ll shrink to Mini-Me, slide
neatly into the Chrysler’s
passenger seat

and cram my mouth
with clouds of Reddi-wip.
Mom will creep along
Sunset Boulevard, windshield
wipers on full swipe, Petula Clark
sparking boyfriend-hope

through the radio.
At the fabric store
on Highland we’ll choose
chintz for my apron
for home ec, dash
through downpour to Pioneer

Chicken for livers-in-a-basket
and chocolate malts.
I’ll listen to the rhythm
of the Singer sewing machine
as Dad sutures the seam-ripped
apron I can’t stop

myself from stitching
inside out, then patiently
decodes Mrs. Manor’s
guide to ruffle-making.
Tonight I hear “Downtown”
through earbuds

on my stationary bike.
I can’t remember
what a milkshake
tastes like, but I think
it tastes like rain.
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