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The Leaving Months

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I’ve learned to swallow the tongues of mouths estranged.
Learned to compress the surface area of childhood into
four months of bed sheets and anxiety ridden wall paint.

The process bore an incomprehensible resemblance to the texture of bark
and chimney grit, the creak of the screen when I slipped through the pane.
O God, let the poise of harvest – and our dusking winter - take me home.

The month of reparation has come. She bids return with serrated
hillsides. I chose the vastness of here and the fair skinned gale
for she would not dull her edges, the source of heat within my body.





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