And, perhaps, the body
really is a gift, this small beating
in my ribs a reasoned rhythm. Once, a woman
at the museum reminded me of a harp. Her supple spine
defined a frame. She was so tense, I could see wires
as if at any moment she would become music
or break. The way moonlight broke itself
in our window when as children
we sisters cut each other’s hair.
Mary and I found a moth trapped in butter—
wings
a purple diagram of stopped motion.

-Lynda Hull, from “Autumn, Mist

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