by Leija Farr
“Put your lips where my body creases”
Do not expect fruit where a bloodline
no longer lives.
My grandmother used to be a country.
Used to be a house.
She wore soil under her fingers,
Deep brown kissing nail beds.
She was full
It is tradition for all the girls to wear a war like a blouse.
We don’t linger on that anymore though. This poem does not have enough space for that kind of burial.
The casket fits here
Where your lips
for a pulse
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