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Margaret Aho
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When I Wake I Remember

his head:
crested, like a scythe's blade, but
pearly, pelucid: a
long lick of blue white.
So: His head. With its geyser
of margarite. Eidetic. This, and the shell
he hefts. Ear-shaped. With its row of respiratory
holes he holds his fingers
over, then lifts, fits the whole thing
like a muff
over his left ear. Closing his
eyes. (This correlation of motion—shell up,
lids down—I
remember.) Head. Shell. Hand. Eyes
lidded. And
his mouth, when he finally speaks, doesn't
open: splendor
squiggles from his throat. A vermiculate
halation. Glow worms. Signaling.
Hailing my most abhorred
self.

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