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Sunday, February 26, 2017 15:30
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By Cecilia Llompart
February 26, 2017

The dead bird, color of a bruise,
and smaller than an eye
swollen shut,
is king among omens.

Who can blame the ants for feasting?

Let him cast the first crumb.


We once tended the oracles.

Now we rely on a photograph
a fingerprint
a hand we never saw coming.


A man draws a chalk outline
first in his mind
around nothing
then around the body
of another man.

He does this without thinking.


What can I do about the white room
I left behind?

What can I do about the great stones
I walk among now?

What can I do but sing.

Even a small cut can sing all day.


There are entire nights
I would take back.

Nostalgia is a thin moon,
into a sky like cold,
unfeeling iron.


I dreamed
you were a drowned man,
crown of phosphorescent,
seaweed in your hair,
water in your shoes.

I woke up desperate
for air.


In another dream, I was a field
and you combed through me
searching for something
you only thought you had lost.


What have we left at the altar of sorrow?

What blessed thing will we leave tomorrow?


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