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Meeting at Pine Ridge
by Felicia Zamora

Sling out your body.
Your inside granules, striates,
plains to the lumbering
ant herds.
What lies in you
warms winds, chilled
past noons of before, after
shadow. The weight of holding
the weight of sag
anchored open
by cracks or wedge of iron. Power
in your fibrous beams
rotund quavers
of termites and leaves. The beetles
in your belly belong to you. Guests,
at the table of your ribs. My lines
mimic you
elbows and forearms curl
to hold. Sisters,
in ardent work. Your limp
mass in my arms
stifled under
crunch of snow
in winter’s lull. Shush
to the place of burning. Smoke
crests. Me on my knees,
you huddle far from home.
Will you scratch my name
backwards to remember me
in metal, or in stone –
pressed to imprint
parchment engraved.


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