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I come from a womb that came from a womb
where one child thrived and one child failed.
.
Some days I am nothing but bluster. Bluster, and this
small dance I let my hips lean into before they snap back.
.
When I was eight I starved my pet rabbits,
I slapped my sisters and mastered the art of the pout.
.
I spent junior high in the fiction section
and cautiously befriended the halt and the lame.
.
Now the worm is my mentor, blind and persistent.
The wind is my friend and the dog who does not speak.
.
I worship the ball bearing,
singing, spinning and hidden as it works.
.
My hands reach from side to side, my breadth,
my height, no adequate measure or reach.
.
Still, the harmed boy turns out his sadness in the paddock of my arms
then runs and somersaults across the spindly stream.
.
The brainy girl child with thorny braces grazes in the tiny pasture
of my attention. She tastes the young grass, breathes in its scent.
.
My man calls me beautiful, though he knows
how it feels to be wounded by words.
.
Sometimes I pray to the god I scarcely believe in.
Let me be still. Let me be mute and burnished.
Copyright 2019 Luray Gross. From Lift published by Ragged Sky Press.

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Such haunting couplets from such a uniquely & ardent solitary voice.
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Isn’t Luray great?
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This, and everything this poet touches with sight and hand are so right on! I knew the poetry garden was great as I was walking through the gate, watching my every step, but I haven’t yet made it to the fence in the back, I keep stopping here and there, finding these poets you planted and brought up, Michael.
Is there a back fence?
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Thank you for publishing this deeply moving poem.
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