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Jane Ebihara





the old woman in my mirror craves

little more now

than kinship with the living


she claims sisterhood with every fleeting thing

    slug and sparrow

    mite and minx

    seed  and spore

    beetle and bear

        the mighty and minuscule


the woman in the mirror savors  

fire    laughter     the longed-for song     

and language not her own


she leaves her meal

on the table

growing cold


hungers only   

for morning

    then morning again

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