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At the UICA every work of art tells a different story.
The voices of 30 artists, thinkers, people and individuals arise.
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Glazed with bronze, carved of wood,
larger than life, elongated
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From my porcelain perch
I watch my mother's reflection
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A slow rearranging of flesh,
like melting, baby-doll plastic,
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Silver drips into puddles on the concrete
filling the spaces between unsmooth pebbles
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It’s anxious and calm at the same time
It’s beautiful, yet mysterious and dark
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Our hands through gloves must touch;
Though they the fabric do inwardly heat,
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Pain is brushed upon a fair cheek
Like blush
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on the verge of tears
and giving in slowly
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Hold fast-
But now is too late
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Why don't you realize
that my eyes tell you lies?
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I'm not letting the pain escape this time
it's internal and it will stay that way
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lying on my bed
on the verge of tears again
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Unaware of the violence brewing
in my blood; He waits,
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Isn't it sad
how some people think
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Death has placed his hand upon my back
His touch is not nearly as cold as I had imagined
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Blink away the tears
but the pain still
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Pain is brushed upon a fair cheek
Like blush
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people are sick
years of therapy
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The house smells like weed again
it reeks of smoke and sex
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Responding to Langston Hughes’ “I, too, Sing America”
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you've made me so mad
your breath is a trespass against me
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as you hold that blade to your wrist
tell me all of the things you'll miss
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Continuous rhapsody
of midnight rendezvous
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Safe in the chamber
of your sensual whisper,
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I stand on the edge longing
to spread my wings
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such days that we remember
the times of long ago
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closed eyes- tightly shut
against the realty
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dripping liquid heavy with pain and sorrow
thick drops spattering the white yarrow
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she is proud
when she walks
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they're raging, now evoked
tearing at my soul, once cloaked
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I know you see me
but not the same as I do
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I can feel him
so close to me
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