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41 Cottonwood [Mother] My children as they wandered from me took on the shapes of beauty. I was proud of the way they suffered though I know they were undone by the sharpness of the earth’s asking: Do you know hunger, do you know rage, do you know the color of grief? The color of grief is the bright amber of wasted honey. It’s the gunmetal gray of Savannah skies before breaking open. Look at my back. It’s a map of the way the world looks when everyone is sleeping. It will show you the way to my children’s stories. It will sing. ...


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