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Sickness.

If we are all one, then in my hand is the mortal enemy, the one that felled the forest, struck the fire, the doctors of torture living at the edge of sanity that, like broken glass, does not call itself sharp. In sickness are the stories of a broken world. It is the wedged cut in a tree, the strike between match and wood. It is the way children of burned deer walk out of the fire. I am the child of humans, I have witnessed their destruction inside myself, and crawled along the ground among fallen trees and long grasses. Down there, I saw disease. It closed doors, turned on light. It owned water and land. It believed in its country and followed orders. It went to work. It tried to take my tongue. But these words, these words are proof there is healing.
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Author:Hogan, Linda
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:May 1, 1993
Words:145
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