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The Virgins My mother & her mother & hers, on the porches of their white duplexes sit sticking to their loveseats & their calendars of pale days that cross back & over the Pawtuxet River to church, for last rites & births & a Sunday nod to the marble Saint Mary. The porcelain Mary three towns over cries type O blood from her left eye. Ladies come to her with daisies & bouquets of Clytie’s blood flowers. The girl who loved Apollo stood still by the cornstalks without sunglasses following the sun for eons & hours until her arms became petals & her eyes one red pistil. Sit on your loveseat. Mont Blanc hid its stigma in its tunnel, in its tunnel a fire killed 39 travelers crossing from Italy to France to an explosion in the middle of snow. See how the pale mountain sat for the sun while in its heart travelers burned, see how I have gone from home to mythology to the Alps & nobody has moved. Love, when I say I want to be close to you I should say more about avalanches & bleeding out, how we will move through eons & hemispheres in a white clapboard house. 4 ...

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