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Edgar Kunz

In the Supply Closet at Illing Middle

Mike pins me to the sink, forearm
levered against my throat, flexing
     the needle-nose pliers in one hand.
He and Ant examine the hole in my head
 where the pencil lead snapped off, blood
     leaking down my temple
and pooling in my ear. I squirm
 and Mike presses harder. Hold still.
     I know how to do this.
I know what he means: our fathers
 used to salvage wrecks in Mike’s sideyard.
     Hammer out the paneling,
clean the fouled sparkplugs
 with spit. Flip them for cash or drive them
     until the transmissions seized.
If they didn’t know where
 one came from, they pulled it
     into the garage, sold it off quick.
Now, Ant stands lookout
 in the doorway. Half-watching
     for teachers and half-watching Mike,
who rinses my hair
 with floor cleaner thick
     as motor oil. Eases my head
toward the weak light
of the pull-chain bulb. Presses
     the pliers to my skull, and starts to dig.

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Vol. 44, No. 1

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Tomas Venclova

Literature & Democracy

Tomas Venclova

“A principled stance against aggression should never turn into blind hatred. Such hatred does not help anyone to win . . .”

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