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Ballad of the Walking Woman

Roving warp of remember,
raveled weft of forget,
this burden I've carried, the burden
I set at the roadside each nightfall

that's left to me. Cleft from me.
Waking, I'll sing it behind me,
what's left of me. Walking, I'll sing it
away into nothing. Into nothing

I'll carry it up the mountain
and back. Each day that turns me
returns me to my burden,
the nothing that he left me to carry.

Debra Allbery

New England Review

Volume 33, Number 4 / 2013

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