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Tara Labovich is a graduate of the Colorado College Creative Writing track. She works as a poetry and genre editor at the Hairstreak Butterfly Review and has published several poems and pieces of prose in publications such as Ink in Thirds, Cipher Magazine, leviathan, and Owl Tree Press.
Album of Foreign Objects
By Tara Labovich

​   
i didn’t want to tell them. or like this. i can’t remember
if we got to dinner, just remember sitting down
at the restaurant on the dock, crab smell, bay scent,

mom and dad offended by my elbows
spread on the chair arms. aghast at the red growth—
mom tells me i am no woman like this

i am offensive like this—and that’s how it comes out,
me on a boston dock crying i need it back
i need to take it back

and then i am running away into the city.
these boston strangers are polite and don’t stare
at my mess. i wander behind a warehouse,

back to a new stone dock. there is a call to lean
over the rail, towards the depths, where the old dock fights
against the water. the platform’s gone, only posts left now:

rotting wood climbing
out of the tide like blackened 
teeth—mouth wide and ready to chew.
Need To Name You
By Tara Labovich

​ 
the house on Wxxxxxxxx Court has two liquor cabinets.
tiny palaces. distorted spotlights. crystal lifework.

i liked this house better than my own.
liked the clean counters and the unplayed piano
waiting in the front hallway. 

all those years the basement lights
were never fully on. shadows clung
to the beige furniture as if they were woven
into the wood, scared to let go 
and roam the shag carpet. that brown dim
light, how it filters through you, standing
by the sink. swirling some golden liquid
in a waterford tumbler. this is what peat tastes like, you said

even though you knew 
i knew that familiar smoke—the smell of family christmas
and that distant home—you had me believe
you knew it better.