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  • Marisa Bobal


How delicate were your curls

Twisting like a whisper in the wind.

How soft were your knees

Never bruised or scraped with the scratch of rug.

Your eyelashes,

They flustered.

Your head much too big for your body

Weighed you down like a stone.

How delicate were those curls,

How delicate.

Where are those curls now?

Ironed down by the heat—

Stripped by the tug of the brush.

Do you miss them, the curls of course?

The way they bounced when you stumbled,

The way they framed your soft face.

That soft face,

Now angular and harsh,

Hollowed by the dig of work.

How delicate were the curls.



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