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RATA GORDON

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An Island

 

If a man was an island
I’d walk his spine and pick his heart –
a black black blackberry in a field.
The trees would stitch his trousers.
The rain would nibble at his skin all night
and water would catch in his beard.
I’d cut the shape of his hip bones with a spade
and let the whirr of insects get inside my ears.

 

 

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