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This Lexia Kimiko Kahn, my weekly newsletter tells me, is in this month's Poetry.  I let myself be lured online.  I read till the end and then some.  Collect words for my backpack like snarfle and charnel and spur.  The idea of circumspect mothballs, the idea of browbeaten trees.  (More than anything, maybe I love tidal pools too.) By the bottom of the web page, maybe eye scroll too fast... ...and I think: What would it taste like, this carpaccio of an imaginary prison? [nightingaleshiraz] [?] [Santo Spirito, Firenze] [mercoledì 22 marzo 2017 ore 15:50:00] [¶] You would have been seventy-four today... ...and I would have read this, maybe a little differently: Sometimes seeing her is painful, because I’m not the daughter she raised.  My hair is always the wrong color, my outfit too plain.  We work better with long absences so that both of us forget.  I sit at the kitchen table with the phone pressed to my ear, and take too long with my answer.  I’m conjuring a lie, a good one that won’t sound selfish. Maybe a little. [nightingaleshiraz] [?] [Santo Spirito, Firenze] [giovedì 09 marzo 2017 ore 19:07:15] [¶]