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Dispatches from Somewhere in Brooklyn, 3:22 A.m.
BY SARA HENRY
University of Chicago, ’15
2015 Adroit Prize for Poetry: Honorable Mention
Our riot quieted
to cracked trees, bottles,
the raw gums of winter.
Every bar door an exit wound.
C’s voice is a white curtain,
burning. The dark a child
listening on the stairwell.
This is my history, lost
to clear and unclear fluids.
What god knotted these streets
with hooks for swallowing.
Words fall like hands.
There’s no metaphor
for my sister’s turned back.