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A Letter
I meant to ask you
the blue dress's price,
how much icing sugar
in the cherry squares.
How little makeup
did you draw onto
your eye? Were you
concerned I came
to you an only child,
not a boy? When you
fell in love, did you
know your death would
be soon? Outside this
window, your birdhouse
survives every winter.
Seed, berries, so little
help the wrens need,
scavenging aimlessly
through the icy grass.
I meant to ask who
gave you the string of
black pearls, who the
other laughing woman
in the photograph was.
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