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Panaetius


she had learned that

if she beheld him as if in a sphere suspended

in the middle of where only she could

 

touch him he would always give forth

 

his smiles mattered little to her

as did his frowns his need to shit or to piss

 

but she fed him because he was hungry

death of her subject meant

death of her dissertation

 

she stroked him

only whenever she wanted to which occurred

only when she remembered him

 

he should have thought about that before

he broke into her house

 

he thought it was his turn

for money and a good time

instead

it will be a snowy summer in calcutta before

she’ll let him go

 

she’ll publish first perhaps

then she’ll bury him


 

Eric Robinson appeared previously in the spring 2023 issue of J Journal, with his poems “Juba” and “New Rochelle.” He is now retired from university teaching. 

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