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P. Archie Zan
after Sharon Olds
It hangs in its cell, a purple-headed inmate
strangled by prison linens.
It moves when he moves, a police dog
in primal heat, frothing at the mouth, coarse hair
matted by semen and sweat — and every morning
in his presidential bed, it stands up
for the anthem, and he aims it
like a missile.
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