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In this desert, all this light
and memory.
Briefest moment, your hand 
on my hipbone,
your lungs unfurling themselves.
I could taste your breath.
Electric, your eyes, with what wasn’t said.
So very many things I have left unsaid,
let the curve of a cheekbone,
the hollow below the neck,
the upper ridgeline of rib
speak their own stories instead.

© 2016 Dora E. McQuaid

All peace to each one of you. Dora

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