November 23, 2011
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She sits at the corner of our circle,
Curled tight as a girl’s fist.
Her eyes pool,
Over the knives of her cheekbones.

She has not forgotten, she says,
The flavors of summer:
Running barefoot through wet grass,
The slow sweetness
Of a lemonade afternoon.
She hates only the taste of winter words:

Now she wears worn flannel and denim,
A body of
Shadow stretched over bone.
Nights she lies awake,
Buried beneath drifts of sheets,

Wondering when it all became
So heavy.

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