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Concubine


ISSUE:  Spring 2004


As you dress, early mist
reflects moonlight and silence
between the winter hills

until blackened teeth, shaven
eyebrows, and powdered skin
thrive like secrets on shadow.

That aura caught
by your long brushed hair
is sky whispering

through distance
the old story of youth.
Though you crave your name

on his lips, what if the clock
of hoofs should suddenly
fill the courtyard?

Then who would love
the frozen mist
joining this world to the next?

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