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Sid MillerElizabeth RockneyIn the third grade, were like branches on a sapling, fists to my chest, bite marks To lose in a fight but to be ravaged left me to question my parents recess, lunch, end of the day— and to my mother in row She had freckles and pigtails, an anger toward me than any love I’d known It is too long ago now what I did to deserve it, but I always will remember in a playground— with an angry girl wailing away— move past a moment
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