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  • In the gray light of a Maine morning I studied
    my reflection in the mirror and announced: "They have arrived!"

    The first narrow ridges that preclude widening chasms of shadow like topographic
    blueprints for futuristic mountains.
    How often I pretended
    laughter, the false white of weddings at which I worked up
    crocodile tears, the same for births
    of those who, I knew,
    would find no comfort in the folds of their mothers' skirts

    before I should see such marks honoring me.

    I have waited for the clay of my skin to crack open
    revealing the
    extrusions beneath

    the quiet cave-ins of death
    the violent outbursts of love, birth
    stratified into striations recording pressure and release – the fleshy heart beat of terra firma.

    Maybe I will be published a black
    and white close up in a magazine a crone with deep-
    set eyes lamenting a face full
    of earth.
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