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Written by: Laure-Anne Bosselaar | Biography
  I sold her bed for a song. 
A song of yearning like an orphan’s. 
Or the one knives carve into bread. 

 But the un-broken bread 
song too. For the song that rivers 
sing to the ferryman’s oars. With 

 that dread in it. 
For a threadbare tune: garroted, 
chest-choked, cheap. A sparrow’s, 

 beggar’s, a foghorn’s call. 
For the kind of song only morning 
can slap on love-stained sheets —

 that’s what I sold my mother’s 
bed for. The one she died in. Sold it
for a song.