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Up to the Elbows

 No god is secure from the lofty flight of mortal thought.      - Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz

 

Un-attach your leaden wings.

Replace them with survivor scalp of 

post-chemo down.

Speak to the angels in your sleep. Assure
your daughter you will always catch her.
What we’ve grown from such compost

is splendor.

What we chant still are the ABCs.

Washing our hands up to the elbows.




Poetry Postcard Festival 2021

 

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