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In Her Hands



My daughter places a clear bottle filled
with water on the steps. Its shoulders 
and torso hold all the world. She puts 
the bottle in the window of a clothing store. 
The mannequin’s ankles are bare, feet wear
no shoes. Cars pass and through the glass
are distorted. Squat shot transformed 
to double decker bus of blue.

Purposefully placed, the vessel. In the video
the music praises her hands. By-passers
are taller, thinner. The cupboard of the world 
opens its shutters and the rain falls out. We
carry whole armloads of clean laundry
passing, exclaiming at the imbalance of the
weather in the world, in the bottle. The sun
arrives. 

The sturdy neck supports her thesis
and I play her recycling soliloquy again, 
drink my orange juice from a round glass 
etched with a mailbox with our name 
and a carving of a girl with a lasso 
circling wisely home.

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