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Poem #6

My Gujarat Girl

She never told me, but I knew the way she slept in mango trees and rolled over ripened fruit, a fragrant mess as she squished sticky fibers against her flesh to ensure homeostasis, viability.

Her mother would always ask: “Darling, where do the fruit flies come from?” as she bleached Gujarat guts out of creamy cloth with her roughest scrubber, scowling at stains that reminded her of something she couldn’t quite recall; a knock unanswered.

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