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Natalie Jill

After my therapist tells me she's not keeping me

I like that

sweater on her


I'm going to tell you

the dream I had when I was six —

this is still my therapy.

I tell you my dreams:

walking alone in the desert,

I came upon a giant baby,

a fly

passes me

on the couch

baby bigger

than any building

I’d ever—

she gets the windex

—seen in New York.

Wailing, dying,

no one to hold her.

and she sprays

as it spirals

to the window,


as it dives

to the wall,


as it swirls

up the molding

Once I realized

the baby couldn't see me,

that's when I woke up.

windex settles

Partial credit

It's not reasonable that you have to

put sunscreen on perfectly.

That it's not

a job done sufficiently by covering

97% of exposed skin. You get

no credit for total

coverage of your back all day long

from the thin strip at the top

of your thigh, where the bathing suit

grooved in to the crease

rubbing off protection, flesh

blossoming bright crimson

in the shower later that night.

Every inch of you has its own

needs. You got it 97% right. Yet

the 3% is burnt, blistering on

your shoulder for days.


Natalie Jill’s most recent work has appeared or is upcoming in Free State Review, Atlanta Review, Sugar House Review, and Unleash Lit. She is a member of the PoemWorks community in the Boston area.


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