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Milla Charlette
Nana’s a safe harbour for a child,
a rattling baby taking water
at the christening font, and fluid
in the lungs. Little’s of consequence
for you, ceremony or theology, or
clan gathering. We pilfer your
routine deftly as rogue genes have
jellied your muscle. But held above
the waterline you’re safe now, if
perplexed to tears, the agony of taking
passage from death to life not quite
surpassing navigation of more hostile currents.
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