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

Ang E. Miller

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My mother became sick and I watched
my poetry scatter. Fragmented phrases
turned up in my dreams but seemed
muted in sunshine. Maybe I fed some words
to Mom hopeful she would use them to
pad her protruding bones. I store sentences in her
like heredity. Someday they will boomerang
out of her back to me. So many lines
shaded in grief. Mourning in these
poems what one day will be my fate.