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      January 9, 2020AshtrayRobin S. Chapman

      Joke gift from my first crush,
      her hollow belly was made
      for stubbing out butts
      and her long legs splayed
      in perpetual cancan kick.
      Her naked breasts glowed
      in my bedroom red
      as the tip of the Marlboro
      he lit that first and only
      date, shaky voice and hands
      offering his ironic present.
      When he went to the dance
      with someone else
      her glazed face
      never stopped smiling
      as I hammered her to ashtray bits
      and buried her
      out back. What was I thinking of?
      Who can piece together
      what we smash in search of love?

      from Issue #16 - Winter 2001

      Robin S. Chapman

      “I listened to A.A. Milne, R.L. Stevenson, Lewis Carroll, and my babysitter’s high school literature assignments under a tree in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, and have been writing poetry ever since, wanting to make silences of memory and my love for Appalachian foothills and Wisconsin prairies come alive again in words.”