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The Chorus of Dead Girls

by on Sep 13, 2010 in Poetry | 0 comments

By JoSelle Vanderhooft Winter sticks between our ribs: lightless shale, bayonets of ice and last September’s briars. But hunger’s knife twists stronger yet. We move upon its edge, two by two, Ark-formation, restless as magpies turning dun-grass— no screw or coffin nail or burnished coin,...

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