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Updated: May 18, 2023

By Chase Cate

“The assumption that Derrida always knows what he is talking about is not Derridean.” - Timothy Morton

How to map

the underside of weeping

the permeant fingerprint

he left on my amygdala

We are photographs

taken in a mirror

a kind of

inverted inversion

pulling the veneer

from our fingernails

when we can’t speak

The memory of my brother

-’s genitals sticks to me

and suddenly I am

In the shower

I am outside

I am under the bridge

I am in the branches

the tree in our father’s yard the one that isn’t there anymore

I am between my third and fourth rib

I am above not a body

I am only impermanent

How to make salient

what can’t be aggregated

tell me at least

how do you think about rain

how do the drops communicate — why

did he do it?

God was right when

he said I am fearful ly created

and why shouldn’t I be

Do you remember the day

she told me to brush my hair

and a leaf fell on my chest while writing?

Do you understand?


we never were

for understanding

I only wish

I could grieve everything

at once

I only know

a wound is a wall

Due to WIX's limited formatting abilities, some elements of this poem did not appear, specifically in regard to strikethroughs. To view the fully accurate representation of this piece, please view the PDF below:

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Chase Cate is a first year MFA student in poetry at Colorado State University. Their work is interested in the cosmic, the mundane, the moving, and how we create meaning amidst it all. They have been previously published in Beyond Words and Literary Forest. When they aren't reading or writing, they love to watch movies, drink tea, and steal back small pieces of their time from the capitalist machine.

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