The Cloister Of Her HabitsBronwen Tate
Trusting the wrong roots, I make a soup for consumptives. The president of the bar twirls a baton. A small landed squire sups on forbidden songbirds. Virile young men turn glassy eyed, glossy as a worm-eaten apple’s fair side. The chill mortuary of his disdain has all the primness of a bride taken to bridle. But what of the tern? A bird turning, a third glance raised to the sky. Not every newlywed is a reveler. From behind my grey partition, I mouth two words for fly.
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