poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

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Thursday, November 17, 2011

The Tumor That Was Actually A Wing

Putting her arm around the tree, she leaned into the quickening;
roots, branches/ her hair hastening to bark,

she was starting to the stick to that tree from the empty space
where the tumor that wasn't a tumor

had been disconnected/ pulled out
and it was found to be a wing, lost/ longing towards every bird.

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