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Saturday, 8 August 2020

THE THINGS SHE WON'T FORGET


Strange how the traveling mind
Torments the squirming soul.

Even now that she has grown
Old, and the feverish anger cold.

Even now as she sits where she wills
Drinks wine, snarls or spits;

Even now that freedom should be
Second nature:

Something in her squints
Cringes and flinches,
At the casual danger in a voice,
A face, even if a stranger.

Even now as she sits in the warmth
And the winter sun unfolds 
The pain from knees twisted
By age into fanciful shapes.

Even now she recalls 
The slap of his flesh 
And the burning sour-sticky 
Rain of his sweat.

Manuela Cardiga

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