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and breath and lost. The hospital has the same antiseptic smell sharp as bee stings. In the last few hours the mold in the window frames at home has become a pressing matter. Pacing, I carry the worry of every mother— those (my sister) who were pinned (forever) into hospital corners where children bleat under long rungs of florescent lights. The babe wakes from needled dreams when the doctor comes in to say go home to your overturned life. To dishes fragmented across wooden floors. Drive carefully over the caressing bridge.

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Natalie Bryant Rizzieri

Permafrost Magazine Summer Issue, 36.2  
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