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A maid comes home in the evening
With a scar on her right cheek and
Singing wrists of turquoise.
Coming in from a field,
Spacing her stride,
Facing her family and
Carrying a part of dinner.

Each family knows tragedy
And protects it
With a secret language.

She enters the kitchen with
A bundle of stalks
Tangled with elbows
And does preparation,
Laying out the runes
And cutting into quarters
The private transmission.

When there is fear,
The table is set as
Maintenance to the ordinary

A moan
From underneath
Interrupts grace
And the wood boards
Torque, snag, stop.

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