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Sketch by Lois P. Jones Now that you're gone mother, your face is an oval of absence where I fill in your features—the forest that was once your eyes glimmers as if you see through me as if the earth I dwell in is only as real as the connections we inhabit. I'm still surprised when I hear your name. I'm still struck by the way you left this life. It's taken so long, but I can finally draw the line from your shoes to the sky. The grasp of your fist full of sunflowers.
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