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History gathers heavy 

like cinnamon 

at the bottom of a teacup.

History is a disclaimer. 

It's misshapen, lumpy. 

It's seeing a face in the grill of a car. 

It’s that time your kid was really into dinosaurs. 

It’s the encampment that once was. 

It’s a Bushism. 

It’s a Rembrandt. 

It’s a culture that escaped the Latin alphabet.

It's the scars on my stomach. 

It's the names of the stars. 

It’s literally twerking right now. 

I hate it. 

I want to spit it out.

I hate it. 

It’s a train. 

It’s a gun.

It’s boring. 

It’s a scar. 

It’s a chain.

It’s a chain–

But the chain reaches into a deep well




History gathers thick

like cinnamon 

at the back of my throat.

It flavors my tea. 

I sip. 


Poet Rose Dallimore
K. Rose Dallimore

K. Rose Dallimore (she/her) is a poet, playwright, educator, and advocate living in Washington, D.C., USA. She lives with chronic illness and makes the most of it all. Her work has appeared in Rough Cut Press, Anodyne Magazine, Bossier Magazine, The Bitchin' Kitsch, and Patients Rising, among others. Follow her on Instagram @dose.rallimore and @rosesthingies.


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