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I don’t know how to be a question mark. 

Nor can I take up space. 

For its place used to be a period, 

but a comma took its face. 

I don’t know how to be a question mark. 

A point I can exclaim. 

I’m not sure how to BE in the this moment. 

Tense is present; past tense all the same. 

I’m used to picking a direction; 

writing betwixt the dark. 

But I can’t even find my apostrophes, 

So how can I be a question mark? 

An obscure place in my sentence, 

has no answer to start.

So I bash the words together, nay 

And curse that question mark. 

That period oh, she mocks me.  

So certain in its end. 

No matter which direction I push,

the exclamation point won’t bend. 

I tired to finish this story

All dashes and ampersands, 

but I still don’t know how to be a question mark,

and that is where I stand. 



Copies of a copy.

Your voice sent a shrill up my spine.
You sound just like him.
Him, you, familiar.
Reached through time and pulled me impossibly back with it.
Memory is like that.
All we are is tied to copies of a copy of a person.