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36 THIS IS THE FINAL DAY AFTER YEARS OF SWEETNESS The poet’s skull is absent from this pink marble tomb, replaced with my head. His right hand too is missing, stolen by a drunken friar ages ago. Alive, my right hand cupped eggs still warm from the hen, a newborn’s head without ever saying this is what waits. I used every part of me, every bone pushed against the world and the world pushed back. It’s the pressure I’ll miss and remember—the tip of his spine firm as a finger held to my lips. ...

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