“My left hand still scarred where I scraped my knuckles against the brick wall. Here I am parted
from the laundry basket, the skillet of eggs, from the dog’s expectant snuffling…”

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PoetryAnn E. Michael
A Daughter

“I caught her in the ditch again at dusk, thick in the brambles
of blueberries. She was digging at the roots like she meant to save

them from their station, to free a bush from its thicket...”

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