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Sandra Fees
The years string eighty-eight
shards of light around her neck.
Are they skulls or prayer beads?
When the knot loosens, they scatter
striking floor tiles like tiny mallets.
The sound is something curving
like the bowl of the body, all crescents
and clinging, cheated of last embraces
as it refracts the harmonics of regret.
The Sound of Something Curving
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