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For Edith Södergran
by Wilda Morris

The dough you kneaded
was rich with yeast
while you hungered
for bread. No one
would purchase
the cathedrals
you baked. No one
cared for the pearls
and trees rolled out
on the breadboard
of your life. Acid
tongues could not taste
the richness of your flour,
nor acid pens describe
the rich gold of yolks
coloring your poetry.

Though you died young,
the yeast keeps bubbling;
your cathedral baked
to a golden glow;
its talon-scared spires
reach high
into Scandinavian skies.


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