The Space Where I Make a Life Is a Rented Room

Cathy Linh Che
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I retrofitted a shelter. 

Burned driftwood.

Drove a gash across the country,

slept in the car, dreaming,

of you. I was in love 

and erasing the gap.

I drew a line 

and watched 

it shake.

Dark rose 

of the afternoon,

spillway into the delta,

I wept, blistering. Pinned 

photos to a clothesline—

and leapt into each one. 

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