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by Peggy Dobreer

                                          I look
for remnants in my side drawer,
a mollusk, an errant sock, a book
of matches that catches the eye. Once
there was a market for such items.
They reminded customers of what
the Buddha said, or the final words
of a prophet whose last request
is that you dance on his grave.
How can you refuse? The rain
of your loss runs down the cheek
of each ronde de jamb, each piquet.
Music disappears behind your bias
and the heel of your breath hits
the ground hard with every step.

                                         A man's
name in Devanagri script is crisp
and treacherous. Kali guides every
dunda, with the instinctual caution
of a lioness with cubs. His footsteps
creep across the crepe of night, abrupt
as any leave taking, weather disturbing
the evidence, changing its hue.

*published in In The Lake of Your Bones, Moon Tide Press, 2012

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