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by Jane Lang

Not sure what it was she wanted
the girl often stood in this cramped alley
looking towards the sea beyond; she knew
she wanted "more," yet when she sat at the
far table, eating crusty bread, enjoying a sip
of red wine Rosa allowed her, she could not
put pictures to "more"

Sometimes she pretended she was
reading romantic words from a lover
who sailed as crew to ports of call
with exotic names, sometimes she
dreamed of lying in his arms making
the world go away one kiss at a time

and sometimes, she sat at this table, smelled
the heady bougainvillea of low-hanging vines
counted the many herbs growing in terracotta
pots along these tile floors and knew, if she
wanted "more" than her lot—reality would set in,
deaden her senses because her destiny was sealed


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