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Clytemnestras.

Sunday dusk. Inside the rooms everything in its place like a regiment readied for sleep after an uneventful day. In the kitchen the cat gnaws on the last fishbone closing the circle of tranquility.

Autumn rays touch Our faces with ash. Bent, we ravel up the tale of our lives. The lunatic goes to thank the saint for her cure. The whore with the high rump slips through the husband's door. No one knows if the knifegrinder sharpens his blade for a killing. The priest shares his secrets with the coffinmaker. The sea stirs itself with melon husks and ancient shipwreck.

The bells ring for evening prayer. Each gust of wind drops a cluster of mulberry leaves on the pharmacy's tin roof. What lies between us and that noble queen? She on the palace stair waiting for the sentinels of victory We, spinning dreamthreads to the moon to hang ourselves on.
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Author:Bita, Lili; Zaller, Robert
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:May 1, 1993
Words:151
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