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Gillian Prew

Swaddled in summer,
the day after the longest day:
everything sweat –
my mother pricked with blood.
The accumulation of winters –
the foggy precipitation of remembrance
skimming the dust. The dust
for the new silences it embalms. Ephemera,
these indulgences –
these dark vaginas;
fleeting commotions –
embellished sadnesses,
sometimes art
or a death.

©2012 This work is the property of the author.

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