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#SIP - Poem by Marie Estelle Bland

Los Angeles

by Marie Estelle Bland

The smog soaked hills

of my memory

wrap me up, but I do not

choke on the thickness

of their embrace. I’m from here.

I can make them out from a mile away.

I think it takes a past

to rightly distinguish

between the ridges and the sky.

The blanket that kept me warm

is muted and gray, but I am not.

I live in this basin happily. My lungs

are half soot. My father loves

his sun-touched bald spot. His father

died of lung cancer.

They came back here. I will too.

We all come back and

choose to inhale.

Marie Bland is an undergraduate at Stanford University who doesn't know what she's studying yet. She hopes you enjoyed reading her poem more than she is enjoying quarantine. You can find her on Instagram @blandwiches. 


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