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by Amanda Auchter I ride inside the half-hook of your womb, listen to the pause of your breath. The rise and fall undulates, rocks me against the black hollow of your body. I am the collector of your routines, piecing together the slivers of you that sink downward, crossing over the boundary where I lie tucked and curled. At night, I hear the quiet call of your slumber, the faint echoes which drift and sway as I lie awake, watching the stars of our cells splash and churn. |
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