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Back then, I hung lanterns on my heart,kept my own counseland spoke Romany in front of the marks.I appeared 18 or 80depending on the phase of the moon, or the shape  of my dreams.I kept The Fool and The Tower up my black lace sleeveand slept with other girlsthinking to cure my fever and my thirst.
Now a young man comes,his mute-bird girlfriend behind a pacewith her patience and frybread face. I long ago burnt my heart down to nothing,fueled with equal measures bravery and turpentine.So, why does he make a visible ghost of me?Do I wail for wanting to touch him,or because my unringed fingers die behind my folded arms,cursed by years?
Once, I hung lanterns on my heart,and spun spells that only worked when I didn't care.I mixed brown sugar with oleanderand wrapped my sorrow in a million words.Young man, these are not crows, they are flying ash.I want you and cannot say it,but you came here with intention of unraveling old spellsand have done thatfiercely well.__________for The Sunday Mu…

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