Did a slave song at a master’s biddingmark Tom while asleep in Charity’s womb?
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… Fingers garnishedWith fumes of onions and garlic, I slipBack into my shift, then watch her hands—wordless—Reattach her stockings to the martyredRubber moons wavering at her garter.
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The calf is born dead. A folded and wet black nothing.
It falls out of its mother—still—onto the ground.
We watch it in the headlamps. Empty fur sack.
A broken umbrella made of blood and bone.