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Moon rises low above the mountains,

blurred moon, you watch it

with your eyes stinging, you can

barely breathe. Wait. The clasp that clamps

itself at your breastbone will loosen.

You may weep.

 

Or you may stun yourself

by laughing, though your face is wet

and the moon an oblong smear in the night

sky—you may watch yourself as you

laugh with your whole heart

your whole life.

 

 

 

Ann E. Michael is writing coordinator of DeSales University and the author of the poetry collection Water-Rites. She lives in eastern Pennsylvania and blogs at www.annemichael.wordpress.com.

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