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205 As It Was Written The Apostle’s Wife Adam Tavel Tongues of flame, the secreted tents, slinking mute-dune deserts like coyotes we wept to know again the taste of cony stew. My fingers sought a daughter’s locks to braid as mine thinned to silver beneath my veil. Bishop of a rowboat, he oared an ocean to smite Myra’s doubt with a gunnysack of splints & cloudberry. It was a land weary from gumming a Roman bridle. Beside his moonlit cot he chapped his knees. The jailor learned my scars. So freed, my love repaid my love with stones. I wait upon his name among the news of martyrs here, an orphanage, balming the blind girl’s sores. ...

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