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39 Daughter of My Mother The lost daughter of my mother quietly sits in remonstration, her hollow eyes, as round as Sodom Apples, shyly hide behind rims of her eyelids; her dark brown pupils goggle into distant horizons ‘free at last, free at last,’ she gasps, ‘mind, body, and soul!’ Yet, invisible shackles of femininity pull her down, down, down until she vanishes into oblivion— A squashed bug. ...

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