Red Bird At Dawn

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I was born with two images of
myself: walking over water and 
flapping my arms up and down as
if they were wings / not defending
myself or leading people on to
think I am anything less than a
survivor let loose in the wind / cut
free from a woman’s body
        
                       singing a song to and for myself—
                       as a way of taking good care.

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Suppose the body speaks
languages of birth and death /
a multiplicity of myths.