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Amber Tamblyn doesn’t try to amaze Harriet readers with her poetry:

January 10, 2010

Pssst: are we the only ones that think this is the kind of shit that just might win one a coveted Ruth Lilly Fellowship?

I wrote a small poem for Brittany a few days after her death.  It’s not meant to amaze you, I don’t expect this board to go bananas over it.  I just wanted to share the instantaneously complex feelings of one young actress who was born here, about another young actress who died here.  To share for sharing’s sake.


In the shower,
her body dies like a spiders.
The blooming flower
seeds a cemetery.
A pill lodges in the inner pocket of her flesh coat.
Her breasts were the gifts of ghosts.
Dark tarps of success.

Her mouth dribbles over
onto the bathroom floor.
Pollack blood.

The body is removed off the red carpet,
put in a black bag,
taken to the Mother’s screams
for identification.

The Country says good things
about the body.

They print the best photos;
the least bones, the most peach.

Candles are lit in the glint
of every glam.  Every magazine stand
does the Southern Bell curtsy in her post-box office bomb honor.

The autopsy finds an easy answer.
They say good things about the body.

How bold her eyes were, bigger than Hepburn’s.
The way she could turn into her camera close-up
like life depended on her.

-via Harriet @ pofo

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