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She trailed
the ragged thing
well past
the age of eight,
remains of what
had been
light comfort
for her crib.
Last seen,
leaking shreds,
it remained
somehow inviolate
until the day
she let it lay
Then it was boxed
and put away.
She never said
a word.
We do not know
how it lost
its magic
but feel guilty

Speaking of...

  • A poem by Cliff Henderson.


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