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She Sits on a Stone Bench

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She sits on a stone bench
Tracing patterns on the
dusty skin of her arms.
She plays connect the dots,
Freckle by freckle,
With the tips of her fingers-
As if memorizing the constellations
On her skin.
She looks up to a sky
That is bare of sun, moon, or stars
And wonders why she didn’t stand up and leave
Before her legs had atrophied-
Because it seems that over in the courtyard
There is sunlight.
She knows that should she try to stand
She might fall.
And so of course it is easier
Never to stand at all.





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