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August 29, 2009

This must happen
after death: the gold

out of the teeth,
liver broiled instantly,

but the loins smoked and saved
for the long journey.

This must happen:
the heart, wrought solid,

kept for a grinding stone,
crescents of nails

filed clean for amulets.
What falls down

must fall down, but we take
what we need.

We try to use
all that’s left.

Sinew for harp strings,
scrimshaw from the long bones,

retina caged
and set singing.

by Monica Raymond

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  1. August 31, 2009 at 5:47 am

    So sharp and lean. I love this poem.

  2. oriana
    October 10, 2009 at 10:58 pm

    This is as good as it gets for the genre, so to speak — I’m thinking of poems by Charles Simic, for example. Wonderful writing. Oriana

  1. August 26, 2010 at 7:38 pm
  2. October 26, 2010 at 11:15 am
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