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78 Tweezers A ballerina on chopstick legs that clamp and spring back her pointé shoes so sharp, tweezers dexterously pluck all anarchist growth till her eyebrows clear two shadowless crescents her crayon accentuates. Near pinch of the skin, the two blades close quick on tiptoe. For magazine perfection, she pays the price of deep pulls, prickly and painful like electricity. Tweezers dance on their own music, and click away their double shape in a mirror close-up vision, dead commas of routed deserters— these pluckers like the femme fatale they serve never bow, know no finale, incessant bitchiness no hair will outgrow. —yes, pretty, pretty . . . tweezers shine on the cold white sink, dead tuning fork of her beauty. ...

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