Dumey and Son Office Equipment

by Ryan Harper

Identical. Amazing. Never seen

one work so well. I fed original,

out came original, just like Jonah,

out of the rolling jaws of the machine.

I held the two originals up—same color,

line, and sharpness. Where there once was black

there was now same, and I looked at my father.

The shadow of the office blinds cut dark

terraces on his face, his green eyes yawned

out of their cavernous sockets looks like she’s working

I looked back at the copies, my hands shook

in unison, in the plague of symmetry

I felt the heat of the machine pawing

at my pant legs as everything melted

behind the light through

the two blurring originals,

now a cloud penetrating space

and I didn’t want

to know a woman

to die or write or be

vaccinated

sick

wished that jesus

had stayed

the hell away

suddenly

I wanted my hands

to point

at everything

else

but they were sucked

into

the originals

wanted to scream

It! You! Stay there!

stay

but screaming

is a thin

and unguarded

bridge

through space

like bullets urine

memos

fonts italics

who knows

what else

climbs over

that bridge

between space

itself

no one

knows

but I

know I

will die

in my

unknowing

good shot with my left hand I’d wadded one

copy, thrown it into the trashcan

across the room. My father stood on the other side

of the machine. Through the machine’s glass surface

I could see gears and lights, and buttons and words,

and ink and paper. I smiled at my father,

separated by a pangaea of interchangeable parts.