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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.
(from AFTER THE EARTHQUAKE)
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