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Bruises of Unknown Origin
It was the first time
I heard the dove’s low call—
three minor notes
stretched thin across
a motionless prairie
on a shimmering hot afternoon,
the kind where even shadows
try not to move.
I felt like I should be
in mourning too—
but for what, I didn’t know
or had forgotten.
Black Cats and Roman candles
found no customers that day,
just heat, and a solitary girl
trying not to feel too much.
And later that same afternoon,
bruises of unknown origin
started blooming on my heart—
tender without memory,
as if the heat itself
had pressed something into me
I wasn’t ready to understand.
Copyright ©
Roxanne Andorfer
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