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9 Dona Nobis Pacem The moon grows from nothing to a porcelain sliver. The cat bloodies her feet against the screen chasing moths. Our children sleep in the rooms above while I drag a cloth across the red petals the cat leaves on the kitchen floor. I join you in the bed of this passing hour, knowing porcelain will again sift through the screen, and, again, moths will flood to it: light cut by their beating wings, which come morning our children will find in pieces. ...

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