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Granata by Kristy Bowen


The maidens all line up, row by row. Sew their mouths into smiles and

while away the afternoons near the riverbed. The water was red in the morning

so we built a city and called it home. Wrote our own stories in blood against

the walls of the cave that swallowed us. After all, it was all borrowed,

the sky, the sea, the swallowtails that tangled in our hair. No one fared

any better than you at night. Wandering the earth with your eyes stitched shut

by dreams. We tried to offer the gods a rabbit, a pitcher of milk,

but they were stone and cold in the sanctuary. The wind blew through

us like a shell. What hell we could conjure in our bodies, what light.

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