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alone in their attics

they catch moths in their hands

every season abandons them

their dreams are never good enough to write down


they’re always touching dishes

wondering if anyone still thinks of them


they remember their childhood like an island

that sank into the ocean


they get rid of crumbs

retrieve and sort the mail


no matter how good their husbands treat them

life puts them to sleep

they feel like dying hens


they must make art

but they’ve never made art before

Rachel B. Glaser

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