We showed up late to the house of words.
Now we grope our way down stairs as painful
as vertebrae and search between the wall's plastered
shards for some living syllable—sister to bread
and poverty—to bring our lips.
Such as a name, a woman's name.
The bone of a woman's name lost between the stones
of these walls that once upon a time housed
flesh inside. And perhaps a jewel
a little box
a mirror you could ask
so many things.
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