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I swallowed air more than I breathed it. Took space
more than I held it. He said I’d die
ten times and still rise a woman made of bees
swarming chrysanthemums, dragging dust
between worlds. I said he lassoed meaning
in a house of mirrors, pushing his hands
through glass to find memory, grabbing
my shoulders, which have a history of shrugging.
I clutched the crests of my stomach, and he reminded me
I was not soft. I took my knuckles
to his lips. Called them hissing mollusks
in the sand. At dawn, he said most of me was the tongue
of a bell clanging against copper until only what echoed
remained. I said the rest was light.