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A word enters a stone, makes it pliable, foreshadows dust. A butterfly spoken, is dust. The desert is many lives spread thin, it is one life here, in this poem that craves water. You take a crayon and colour your smile. You are older than many butterflies yet your peace mimics their curvèd flight. The word is merciful. As the wind calms mountains calms valleys you are blown to an ocean, but let us forget how circles, femininity, evolve long enough for you to promise consciousness to every atom damp with flickering promise. You may take a husband, you may consent. Answer him guiltlessly, Michelle. |
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