Thank-you for sending me back to the page, the open notebook, Sarajevo’s unfurled tail along the table’s edge.

She guesses a bee can fly five thousand miles in one day and even though everyone playing trivia at the family table says she can change her answer, Mom sticks to it.

You marvel at mosslight & owl-screech, question if keening is important—the dirge of bees swarming at the windowsills, the roosters that only crow at night.

See me reflected in the fairy tale mirror: the snarls of hair, the graying teeth, the skin smeared with mud and rain. I might have crawled out of the brush to hamstring you with a sharpened rock.

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