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November 29, 2022 • By Jane Zwart
Rubble Square
Adam Tavel
Sickly gray, the ridges of their scales
resemble tarnished dimes poured from
a pillow case, or beef that’s spoiled,
or brains blown from a president
that mist his wife who climbs to scoop
a country in her gloves.
The girl
[…] squints into
the whitened glare
behind the white
photographer […]
She’s nine or ten.
Her limbs too lean
from overwork,
her knotted hands
rest on her smock.
Or so I guess.
I cannot know
their bodies blown parentheses
wind-whipped atop the whitened dunes
in snow or heat it’s hard to tell
the season of their suffering
but wind: it makes small sails of rags
these six with billowed sleeves all wear
forever in unfinishing
¤
Jane Zwart
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