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To your crickets,
cicadas, and parking-lot palms,
to your one hundred and three cable stations,
to your microwave filled with bags of bread,
to your Mar Jong tiles and scrabble chips,
lollipops and licorice.
To your seventeen purses and nine pairs
of white arch-less shoes.
To your refrigerator drawers of Florida fruit,
double D batteries, and tin foil wrapped rolls.
To your 2 p.m. naps and blood thinning pills,
to your diet of white toast and salt free soup.
I came without clotted vein or hysterectomy cut,
without obesity or swollen joints, without stitches or scars.
I came without husband or child,
my uterus as perfect as an unsoaked bean.
I came for the braille of your stapled skin,
for the story of your mother's dough,
how you pulled unborn chicken eggs from a carcass
and popped them like syrup candy under your tongue.
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