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by Sylvie Wang


The rest of the house
The earth which is pungent wet and sucking
The grey-haired woman well
I can’t see her but I know
She resides either outside
Or half within,
So maybe
the laser edge of the frame will divide her
One shining cell
of bone marrow will be bisected
And one organelle

everything she will touch a thousand times
The fencepost half-hidden by bamboo
The ledge of the windowframe
which is oily from fingers
Her husband
At night they are still greyscale hibernating and lonely
seen only by scant rays of dim radiating light
In ten years standing still but decayed
Dust now passing through crumbled or metabolized holes

He brought the bride into the breakfast-room
She thought about risk
Leaning in as he took
her hair in his hand and felt it
He was to tell her this:
(In a somewhat subdued way)
You know your status as property in this whole arrangement
Was really just an afterthought to me
leaning back against a table
All 5 of her fingers were resting, tentlike
in a pool of oil on a platter


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