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    by Jennifer Lothrigel

    ​

     

    My hips

    are a clandestine mourning ritual

    where all the women are wearing black,

    holding each other tenderly in a circle.

    ​

    The bees have left their bodies here.

    All their dances

    have become bone statues

    for loyal flower worship.

    ​

    I remember salted spine,

    how a sun-drenched surface

    is felt at the depths,

    though unseen.

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