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A Woman Spins Her Grief
by Danielle Beazer Dubrasky

A woman spins her grief into a flame
and you hold it as if you could never burn.

You carry her sorrows between your fingertips.
Your sinews of voice trace ruin and light on her palm,

each of your notes on her skin a moth singed by a star.
Your song breathes open wings

and spirals through shells to no more words‐
only the ocean echoes in her cochlea.


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