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   c a t a m e n i a

--- N A T A S H A   S A J É

How this rhythm bubbles
like a hidden spring, and echoes

the one mad tongue
the body knows by heart and speaks

as a penitent in solitary, lucid
in a cell not of its own making.

How these leaves of blood and tissue fall
from the womb—swollen as a night

of dreaming—into autumn.

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