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The Condition


Cerise
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The Condition

 

 

Her hands tremble constantly now

Hands that used to tie a shoe

Or pour a cup of English breakfast

Hands that knit together sweaters

And broken skin

With the same amount of care

and concentration

Hands that now grasp my sleeve

And hold tightly

Yellowed nails pressing into blue silk

Like little faded suns in a darkening sky

‘I’ll see you at Christmas won’t I?’

One of us must be reassured.

‘Of course you will.’

God, don’t make me a liar…

‘Of course you will.’

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