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  • Hannah's got the hood of her navy blue sweatshirt pulled up over her dark hair. She wrote a poem today.

    She holds the back of her hand to the tabletop candle, lighting up her scar.

    Points to her chin, stitches there. And her mouth, "They're porcelain veneers, glued to the shaved-down stubs, the roots of my real teeth."

    She says only the really great poets deserve to write final lines that sum up their poems. Most should just leave the endings dangling at odd angles.
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