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Clone doesn't get any sleep

clone keeps a diary
clone writes in code
clone taunts me

We’d moved halfway across the country, clone says, my wife and I, I hadn’t yet been fired
and she undiagnosed, after I walked her to work I wandered past the lake, a marching band
at practice, drums in the wind and I know this is stupid but marshes waving to the beat you
know that feeling where everything you read is about you? your wife driving at night, she
needs glasses, you’re drunk, two hills, improper to say one hides the other if both in sight,
the first reveals the second

goes on like this, plays
solitary, reads

my palm—and it was like that: a marching band playing for me, we had argued in the car,
one of us didn’t trust the other, (were you the one who didn’t trust?), blind blessing of the
lake, we couldn’t believe our luck; the deer leapt straight into the air above us, like in a
cartoon: a fish escaping his fate by impersonating an insurance salesman

clone tells the truth—
born special, I can fly, but only
as fast as I walk, run or swim

like you like that you are writing your own story, forgetting other people in it, you will never
really know them

(you are them)

there is one thing each loves more than survival, what won’t you try to save them from?

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Joshua Gottlieb Miller is the Northern Regional Coordinator for the Writing Center at Madison College, a grocer, and a volunteer with the Writers in Prisons Project at Oakhill Correctional Institution. Recently, he was a MacDowell Fellow.

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