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Because I have wanted
           to make you something

beautiful, I borrowed
           a book on how to keep

a bee-hive made of glass.
           An observatory

of translucent arteries
           lit with wing-gossip.

An allegory for the soul.
           Though what do I understand

of beauty that thrives
           in a place of exile.

(Bees can anger so.
           A grist of killers has swarmed
a boy beneath the windowsill.)
           You said the soul-to-be.

Vegetables flower
           outside. Squash-blossoms.

& for what is that
           an allegory?

We live in a copy
           of Eden, a copy

that depends on violence.

Carolina Ebeid

You Ask Me To Talk About the Interior
Noemi Press

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