I
Ghosts live like this.
And sometimes,
children.
A house full of waiting.
Small hands
smooth
bones
into the flat,
pale finish of the wall.
II
Letters
slide in
colonizing
the furrowed body
Well-fed vowels
crowd
the bowl-shaped
heart
of my hips
III
These are the hard utterances,
each nailed to the square town.
These are the work.
— Catherine Munsee
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