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Feb 2010
She never spoke
but sang to me
and blew into her hands.

Whatever she hid there
I never knew.
Cupped in the hollow
like a small flame kept alive.
Bent over it
to see heerself
mirrored in the dark.
It glowed like embers
through her fingers,
but I never knew  what it was.

A bird, I wondered,
or a winged bug,
and whether its shadowy light
meant it had flown away.

Until one day,
opening her fist, she showed me
a  burned-out cinder,
a tiny corpse of self.
___________________________________Poem shaped as a riddle. Answer: old age.
Written by
luis harss
716
     Grace Culloton and D Conors
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