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NOVEMBER




LYN LIFSHIN



Somewhere the
edges blur
under leaves
on a whiteness
that could
camouflage what
was torn and
ripped as the
black ribbon,
an omen of
more that
would be.
My sister,
a loaded gun.
Mama, I write
in the leaves
going dust
if you knew,
if we knew,
if we'd known

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