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Dear child, I feel as if
I only learned the stolen ways of silence,
the trickle of a stream near frozen,
I only learned that boiling water
seals the deeply broken bones
that cascade
in open rebellion against the sworn shape of a body.
The grass is long,
hot, licking
trees suspended
from a burned white
sky, no hills or gardens,
but insects hidden
in cups of sugar
waiting on the sill.

E.R. Donnelly is an emerging writer originally from the midwest with a background in journalism. She has work forthcoming in The Tulane Review.

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