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I carve this apple into a dove,

wrap it in a nest of boiling water.

I pinch your silences into soft whispers,

pile them on your still chest—

the marrows of turtles swirling counterclockwise inside them.

I offer a dry stem,

unfold this paper crane into a square cage.

I keep the butcher’s thumbprints here.

from Flood SongFind it in the library

Copyright © 2009 Sherwin Bitsui
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Copper Canyon Press.

Published in Poems Sherwin Bitsui

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