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 Her brown falcon perches above the sink
as steaming water forks over my hands.
Below the wrists they shrivel and turn pink.
I am in exile in my own land.
Her half-grown cats scuffle across the floor trailing a slime of blood from where they fed.
I lock the door.
They claw under the door.
I am an exile in my own bed.
Her spotted mongrel, bristling with red mange, sleeps on the threshold of the Third Street bar where I drink brandy as the couples change.
I am in exile where my neighbors are.
On the pavement, cans of ashes burn.
Her green lizard scuttles from the light around torn cardboard charred to glowing fern.
I am in exile in my own sight.
Her blond child sits on the stoop when I come back at night.
Cold hands, blue lids; we both need sleep.
She tells me she is going to die.
I am in exile in my own youth.
Lady of distances, this fire, this water, this earth makes sanctuary where I stand.
Call of your animals and your blond daughter, I am in exile in my own hands.

by Marilyn Hacker
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