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    What I Do in August

     

    by Donna Vorreyer

     

     

    You were once as much a part of me

    as blood, a new kind of cell. Now

    I search for you everywhere - at

    the dilapidated silo, at the bottom


    of a single-malt. Behind the church,

    they have repaved Main Street, painted

    new crosswalks to give me boundaries.

    Still, on each warm night, I wander until


    I arrive at our old house, pull your book

    from my jacket, find you in each space.

    You are a mark that will not wash from

    my skin, a hush rustling inside my skull.

     

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