The Hospitality of War
I hold myself as if I am raw
silk—a slender shadow—
 
hand folding the soft blue
cloth, then unfolding a still composure.
 
I curve the back of my hand to shape
myself into a sparer mean.
 
What will become of me—my beauty, my howling
hurt, my pilgrim notes?
 
It has rained for days.  The door sticks in the damp.
 
I set the table with pink peony.
Flinched & careful, make a code for stitching
 
Flaw.
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