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A Sleeping Angel

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A porcelain ballerina twirls to the melody of a music box.
A silver hairbrush, the thinnest strands of golden angel hair.
The bedding,
clouds of gossamer above pink and white pillows.
The indentation of a light head.

Through loosely drawn curtains,
flitters through.
The gay song of blue jays in the apple trees.

I close the drapes and
licks at the rug like spilt ink.

The pale white door closes, brass knob clicking into place.
I glide down the corridor, photos in frames showing toothy

I do not slide down the banister. I take
one step at a time.

When I reach the parlor, my father’s arm wraps me in warmth.
I look to his eyes, the crooked bowtie.
I look now to the

White dress, hair spread like the halo of an
She lies there.
My sister.


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