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I've cut people--who people out of smoke and though voices too are made of paper, I know of textures they do not. I am tired of the question that is too old to punctuate itself correctly; my heart could go armless, bald and blur the moment when the girl I see sees the bedroom open and the white furniture sticks to a stranger. I will find myself a brand new monster, lowering her hair to the stream, and I will take to her bed like forgiveness gives and takes a woman. When the bowl of water is free of fruit, when the bowl is free of water, she will pull a tooth from her head to carve herself another, leaving me to consume the mirror in pieces she cut small for me to swallow.

Deborah Brass's poetry has previously appeared in Ploughshares. She lives and teaches in New York City.
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Author:Brass, Deborah
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Sep 1, 1993
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