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title
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Clara Howell


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Emerging

In the shadows of the living
Dad always dressed for his funeral.

Black shadow dragging. Waiting
for the cloak to drop. The snow to run dry.

In winter, I too feel a piece
of me has died. I crawl into his skin.

Wear his hands like gloves. Zip him up
like a suit. And stillness. Stillness.

Let's take a walk out of you
and dance with the Devil tonight.

How fleeting, this trick of light
sweeping into a red-brown shadow.