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24 Thorny I’m the doll in the highest turret where I cast my mother into gnarls and sire infants who consume the last slivers of me. Head on a pillow, I’m a saga drifting over the kingdom, but this isn’t why the place implodes. The other explanation is my mother combing the sycophant’s hair. My father? Gone too far on a boat where he dispatches inquiries about my disfigured face, makes a moat into me, two points on a map. A release of birds signals a grand mal of fireworks because the prince has come and touched my face. Face: I mean mask. Inquiry: I mean the awkward discourse on the radio filled with misnomers and allusions to battles with thorns. ...

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