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Dec 31, 2020 Dec 31, 2020
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Overview

The womb Rattles its pod, the moon Discharges itself from the tree with now­he­re to go. My lands­ca­pe is a hand with no lines, The roads bun­ched to a knot, The knot myself, Myself the rose you achei­ve — This body, This ivo­ry Fragment of Childless Woman (Sylvia Plath)

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