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My One Girl 

She’s too pretty
for that,
too fragile for that;
She’s—
too my daughter
for that—
My One Girl.

And no joy
can dispel my frenzy
of the killing machines:

She’s too pretty for
the debris of bodies
of car wrecks or dry overdoses,
the patterns of veins in thin arms;

she’s too fragile for
falls from windows
50 feet up or
the sniper’s bullet;

she’s too my daughter
for blood on tiles and
dismembered parts in fields.

She’s my joy—
My One Girl;

and there’s no use
to frenzy
about unnamed hate
I cannot dispel,
or plastic explosives
so lovingly strapped
with the intimacy only
a lover can know.

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