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Nov 2011
I feel it now, a separate sense
from the hander-down of names:
A poet’s soul, a half, a whole;
not sprung from any swain,
on bitter earth in stone papoose
bindings clipped from restless roots
I know, in separate senses, this--
that the names I shake from trees
belong only to me,
I am not a daughter but
this wet seed fallen free.
MacKenzie Turner
Written by
MacKenzie Turner
514
 
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