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Saeta


ISSUE:  Winter 2016

The martyr is borne
through town on the backs

of believers.
Such a ghost ship!

all skull, ragged sails.
Your arms arrows—

I quiver

& am unwell.
Touching you I heal

places I never knew
needed.

If faith this is not 
do not let me know.

You my splinter,
my swath of bone.

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