© 2018 by Katerina Canyon
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February 10, 2018

My poems die at the root

at stem and bloom.

I could carry them to mass on

tops of wreaths and sing funeral lullabies.

My memories circle as melodies

around the same place, a face

That does not escape because

it hides in my eyes. I bite

it between my lips, and

I breathe it withi...

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