The body of Abel dies on his body. Dead
in the fields.
The young dead, helpless as children,

trust god but Never knew a bad thing 
to eat your mother.

Eyes cut from Her 
eyes were as big as a glass of paint.

Watch the lashes how they never close them,
a hollowed out—
          Wide and  Light that’s a good thing.

A mother is, by nature, a lamp(    bright and sudden with
the flashes of the dead).

Her time badly spent, her fear
of ghosts;              

They are a mimic.

All her loves, they are a mimic
they are a loveless contortion and their exciting 

future blooms in Full Red out of our reach.

— Miriam Garra is living and working in Baltimore, Maryland.

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