Country Music
an online journal of poetry
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A.T. Grant





my face is a cut-
up. words do not move
through anything
but lacerations.
my heart is a lump
of meat on the
butcher's block.
he attaches the guitar
string to the band-
saw. I sing when
the string slices
my heart into thin
strips. I lie still
in the shrinkwrap.
the red in the package
is not blood. the red
is the red. and blood
is blood. and my
heart strips in shrinkwrap
is how I am loved.