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Russel  Street
by Martina Ruisz Newberry

Horror is a dance, so is emptiness, 
so is celebration.  In her dreams, she 
dances unfettered—nothing can stop her, 
no one will try.  As a child, in bed at 
night, her fingers danced over her own body—
a Disappointment Waltz, begging for 
perfection.  Now her longing is public, 
her eyes look over the landscape and she 
considers all the accommodations 
made to the unrepentant post mortems 
that have made up her days.  Mother gone—she 
learned to live without her.  Father gone, the 
solitude is still overwhelming.  She 
had hoped he would heal himself.  She disrobes, 
then sleeps with her lover whose hands are like 
the ocean, whose passion offers drowning.  
With all those years behind her, she has 
isolated her sacraments and her 
solstice.  Now, in the dark, it is settled:  
what began as love has ended as love.




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