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When she left her body
she disappeared to a lake
the color of glaciers,
slipped through the lip of water,
swam inside a tabernacle.

All that was chronic disappeared:
desire, cancer, ache, hunger.
I searched the globes of her fixed pupils
and thought: witness, birth of a child,
death of a mother, closed her eyelids,
stepped away from the breeze.

Mary Morris

The Massachusetts Review

Spring 2018

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