They stare at me through windows crystalized Over years and years From gardens I will never see Lost to highways, houses Their jewelry and little bones Removed, poured in concrete For a new franchise gym I breathe on the frames of ancient doors To create maps of our faces with water-swollen fingertips Blood left on the lentil Cut from my own lamb palms Reading tiny notes with phrases I can’t decipher But the meaning doesn’t matter only the translation Their letters reframe me, reminding, echoing Shoving me back to my beginning A name connected to lines That pulse through each initial Whispering they once lived In my cells I won’t continue but I will give them memory.
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