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Teresa Wright

tracing twaddle dot by dot, letter by letter

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my ashes

Earlier than the ashes  
I was wintry, towering. 
An undressed standing  
stone, I kept ruins near. 
Gleaming into the ashes 
I was a fata morgana, an 
ambiguous crone, mired 
as a cur, a vexed polyglot. 
Leaping from the ashes 
I was an open pine box. 
A conscious stream, the 
river, I wrung out words. 
Bound by those ashes 
I am bones, stoneware. 
A sinewy forgery, a shell 
imploring flesh to heed. 

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