Written by Devon Neal
How often can we call a person new? A new boyfriend, sure, a new step-parent. Or, by occupation: a new boss, dentist, hairdresser. Surely there are few honors more deep than being called a new friend. But these are not new people, only new roles for those carrying the damage of their past. Today when I say new, I mean it in the truest sense: fresh skin untouched by sun, fingernails thin as butterfly wings, earlobes as soft and weightless as flower petals. This is three-day-old new, the type of new that slowly seeps from your pores hour by hour, but in the darkest hour of night, as you practice drinking and breathing, I hold you close to see if I can keep the new in.
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Devon Neal (he/him) is a Kentucky-based poet whose work has appeared in many publications, including HAD, Livina Press, The Storms, and The Bombay Lit Mag, and has been nominated for Best of the Net. He currently lives in Bardstown, KY with his wife and three children.