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issue 4


a poem by
Donna Weaver
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Her house is unraveling
like ribbon and she can't keep
her husband's hands calm
while she sits sewing drapes

to keep light out.
She's dying Motherless,
with an ache between
her thighs. I visit her

with ice cream, French fries.
She thanks me from the couch
watching The Price Is Right,
and tells me how big the clots are.

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