I’m here about a girl–
sometimes in an apron, 
flowers unfurling on her hips;
sometimes in a shift 
the starved yellow of dawn,
her wintry thighs sugar pale;
sometimes with her sandaled feet
propped on pillows,
painting her toenails silver.
There is something she’s dying to tell me,
face down on satin in the blue handmade light,
suspended by one hand between dusk and dawn.
No one is in this place without a reason.
I’m going to tell you your rights.
The first is
Nancy A. Henry

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