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(for Mireille Jansma) Houses were narrow spaces, people mad, except for you. You were mine, a mirror, scared when the monarchs were screaming. We were daughters, together in that. Holding hands, we walked toward the ship to which the King had been banished. We walked towards his birthday to become his reward. How you lost your way inside a closet afterwards, thinking it a passage in which coats were doors, wind was blowing, how I spun through silent rooms, pointing things out and continually forgetting their names-- with that began our long and separate dance.
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Author:Jansma, Esther; Orlen, Steve
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Jan 1, 1993
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