She pushes out the skin, the flesh and
the blood.
She has a dinner party smile, the smile
that all the others
wish they had.
She is no belle of the house and no
high-heeled, typing Athena.
She is carrying stones, one by one.
She wishes for a category or box
for her days, slipping away like
all the rest.
He, the thumbprint on heaven and earth,
whispers to her:
“Beloved,” he says.
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