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Not a Lament
by Joannie Stangeland

The wind floats a train whistle
across the water, far from the tracks,

the tug in her chest a song
in this early city, the long notes

of someone bidding goodbye
to this town and this morning.

She wants to be done
with the scalpels and procedures,

the sterile rooms with their night
nurses in quiet shoes.

The wind runs through her
as it passes. The wind is leaving.

She closes her eyes,
wants hard to stay.


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