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Our daughters,

by David Swerdlow

  • our beautiful ghosts run down the hill.
  • “They love me,” I hear myself say (and why not,
  • why not? I query in my lonely voice to the hill,
  • to the maple). How long before they grow
  • out of their bodies? If I call their names, bid them
  • come home, they will. They’ll sit by our imaginary fire
  • and pretend to console me, and I’ll pretend
  • to be consoled (the hill and the maple, our old friends
  • fall asleep and wake up, comfort at least
  • in that, my dear). I’m planning to outlive
  • myself. Look at them. Behind the maple, they’ve undressed.
  • They’re putting on our old attire. Should we kiss them
  • before they disappear? Should we rejoice?


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