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Poetry

Before divorce

Madeleine Kruhly

I paint the circle
green and think
it is ripe.

We cross our feet
near ant hills and
weeds

and the sheet of
paper stretches
in front

of our legs. We
draw without
stencils

while behind the
half-shutters of
our house

the two shadows
that move our
blood

bend and slice
like fine hooks
in the currents

rushing below
our heaviest
roof.

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