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Here we are again.
You, with your fruit
and flesh and perfect
4-line stanza form.

Me, with broken lines, and the ubiquitous “you” my MFA advisers warned me never to include in a poem, if I ever wanted to get published.

And there you
are again, sitting
at the piano your
husband bought
for you. Playing
for me. And no
one in particular.

And where was I when you were placing the analog sound of Russian dolls,
one inside another, and
another and
another
and
playing one
song after another
and another and another?

While you waited
for some landmine
to blow down your
house, and mine.
And then learned
the strength of
walking away
once the debris
came barreling
toward what you
thought was your
target all along.

And where are you now?
Mixing the ashes of burnt offerings?
To understand what does not make sense?

Some blueberry stains, leftovers
from this form you
invented before you
learned how not to
love what you love?

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