at my own life.
Disbelief at the
existence of my kids.
Disbelief at my marriage,
disbelief at the color
of my lampshade, disbelief
at my parents, disbelief
at my husband, disbelief
at my sketch pad,
disbelief at my publication
count, disbelief at
my workout duration,
disbelief at love,
disbelief at the shape
of this poem, at the
shape of the body screaming
to everything and
nothing in fear.

— published in The New Yorker
 — republished in Poetry

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