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  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.

by Laure-Anne Bosselaar
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