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Issue 3, March 2009
We Don't Know and They
Won't Tell Us
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Ovule
Shira Dentz

A sunflower seed
hulled,
a tear

pinioned between two fingers;

the shade of barked tree,
bone.



You have a tip like the citron
pointed during Succoth to the four directions:
two poles, sunrise, and sunset.

A tip like a nipple, bird beak, tooth,
but I know it’s your navel,

and where an umbilical root might have rested
along the center of your underbelly

is now a crook;

if you were a boat,
passengers would sit in this scar.


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