Posters are pressed from two 11 x 17" linoleum blocks carved by the band's artist-in-residence, Mike Giuliana
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I wait each night, curled up in our bed. I watch for the porch light to change and listen for your step. I feign sleep, feel you run your cool hand across my brow. My arms turn to goose flesh when you say her name out loud. In the morning, you’ll be smiling, singing softly as you dress. And you’ll leave for work, pat me on the head, say there’s nothing to confess. All through the day, we step out of your way. Men bow at your right and left, nod at every cruel word you say. And the smiles you get, from those little girls who don’t know quite yet just what’s coming to them. In the morning, you’ll be laughing: another notch in the old belt. You see me crying, throw your hands up in the air, you say you wouldn’t dare. For the first time in months, you came right home, the sun still out. You shake your head and groan, this place is such a mess. You storm in to catch us, our clothes strewn around the room. There’s always something to confess.