Silver-skinned fingertips tracing
trilobites, old stones
fossilized fern
Her hand a waxing crescent
of remnants
and someone else’s memory.
Her face was a wall—cracked but not
crumbling, weakened but
not frail.
Fists found her on either side
and she trembled.
Feet of clay
submerged and painted black,
She was bound to a river.
A statue of moon, of earth, of stone-
and the water washed her away.

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