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THE LADDER
by Ira Goga

I sought to be free of desire. To see the fury 
of morning & know it a doorway. I did not eat 
for seven days. Exhausted of my body, 
I did the laundry. What else is there? 
The mind is a brutal room. It does not matter 
that I am, nor that I am telling you this. Only 
the simple marvels: a persimmon, the sky
pulled open by one thousand slender 
threads. In order to see better, I'm taking out 
my eyes. But maybe you are not convinced.
The further I am from myself, the more 
I understand this portion of living. 
This minuscule being. The ego is an enduring 
syrup & o how it oils this ordeal machine. 

Ira Goga (they/them) is a poet and biochemist living in Vermont's Upper Valley.
ISSN 2157-8079
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