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X-RAY


by Elisabeth Weiss


My children fight like puppies.

They bite, they goad, they test.


My neighbor teaches me to make an o

with my thumb and pointer and press;



for deadheaded pansies will regrow

when dormant seeds are coaxed.


Bones thin and glow on screen.

After each fight, a scream


and then they forget.

I lie here waiting to be blessed


by a machine examining

the labyrinth of bone and flesh.


Inside are years I never talked about

and years I could do nothing but.


Forgive me for how I seem.

It is not how I was.


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