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Excerpt from
My mother died with a crochet hook in her hands.
Light spilled like milk onto her face
And was sucked into her pale eyelids.
The color of ash, her body was carried from the house.
My canvases were hidden from the Germans.
Battles were fought and lost,
Love made and undone on soiled beds.
Then my still lives were discovered by a janitor
Who carried three pieces home.
He touched his ear and studied them.
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