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she wears the holes of crucifixion
from the years spent standing in place of a cock
at the mercy of the winds that swirled across the steeple
now fallen, her wings are torn from her back
and her breast is exposed from behind
so her traitor heart can pump its last
into the filth upon which this church perches
like an aged buzzard
too blind to do more than peck feebly for bile
beneath her hand, the shards of a once-sealed jar
stab at her skin, and within its shattered curve
is a single white feather

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