"the marionettes of nossa aparecida, the flight of a tear, the ripping of the firmament, the caution of angels, the curvature of eggs, this is the annunciation a shell’s limits gives way to: yolk ebbing from marbled swans whose whiteness drains.
o aryan glamour in my fist, not yet a woman, no longer a gull. my wing, your palm; your breast, my beak. your sockets i smother until they spume and give me fingers.”
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