Julia Gerhardt

The Wooden Bench

 I want to tug at the skin on my collar bone,

 as if it were a loose cloth shirt,

 and send air deep into the cavity of my chest,

 where the nuns rest,

 and the priest preaches,

 and I am somewhere

stuck

 on a wooden bench

 torn between

 an enthused spirituality and some well-needed sleep.

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