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    Oven

     

    by Hadara Bar-Nadav

     

     

    I live with an oven.

    A heavy weight.

     

    I set the timer, skim

    its caked corners,

     

    wobble near faint

    when considering a square.

     

    Entry. Exit. Door

    to nowhere.

     

    Memory framed

    by double-paned glass

     

    so I can see the stream

    of blue flames caving

     

    the roof of my mouth.

     

    The hiss of history

    ablates my face, blisters

     

    my tongue and my name,

    numbers me among millions.

     

    I crackle as a leaf.

     

    An entire epoch turned                                                             

    its face, then washed

     

    its hands for dinner

    on an ordinary day.

     

    Who set the table

    in silver and lace.

     

    Who opened

    the door then closed it. 

     

     

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