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Tania PryputniewiczBohemian Rhapsody, IllinoisThey left for the formal, devilled eggs our mother in white chiffon, yolk Must she go? David’s here—someone’s hangs over the row of empty boots; her perfume, the obsidian bevel by headlights, little brother bouncing Radio on, standing on the old cord with that velvet singer into the mirror, in glitter, maroon stenciled lips, jury of chorus, the aching for the mother lives before I chose this mother, father, five ironed blouses hanging in her closet,
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