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Worry (the Dybbuk)

I have a worry mother and
I have a worry father and
once they shared a worry and
my own worry a sprout in
this worry dirt, bullied by
the worry weeds, spoiled by
the worry sun and rain and
I the runt among a litter of
suckling worries and the
worry is the current and
we are its conductors and
the worry is the currency we
interchange on holidays and
the worry is the ribbon of
rot running deep in the
center of a chestnut and
my worry and another
worry said I do to worry and
we warm our tea with 
worry and we wonder if
there ever was and ever 
could be a home with
no worry chewing through
the attic and we wonder how
a shoulder might shoulder un-    
burdened by this dybbuk and
I worry that were we to
land on an island without
worry our worries would
starve or worse, survive 
on one another’s offal and
I worry that the worry is
the best of us after all
I only ever held a worry
hand and I only ever ate 
a worry pastry and I don’t
know why I told a worry
child not to worry when
surely the trick is to give 
the worry a name and then
to call it again and again.

This poem was originally published in Issue 35 of Copper Nickel.

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