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Overcoming Dad


by Amanda Harris


Dad, with an imaginary flask at hand that he whirls 
and whirls like a beast untamed, tells me writing, 
 at its core, is simple the way a jet landing is simple, 
coarse the way a woman's hair can be coarse. 
“You do not mess with good writing”, he says, 
aware, in his spirit, of the unspoken war raging, 
like an angry river, in our bodies. Bodies, when 
you think about them, are excellent sites for war. 
They heave when it is right to heave. They bend 
when it is right to bend. If I could tell Dad anything, 
I'd tell him this.
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