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Placed on my mother’s chest

In my sharp inhales of screaming, I must have sensed it.

Perhaps women are made to labor, if only to produce something

So immediately human

As a welcome.

A hot day, hand in hand.

I kissed my love

And there’s the taste.

In back-breaking effort,

A swig from a bottle

Catches a bit


Hello, old friend.

And, in a dear one’s end, I kissed her brow

And acknowledged it as a mark of humanity

A bosom friend.

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