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Biological It doesn’t tick over in a slide of time, but slams up against silence and shares its echoes. I vibrate in my fingernails, behind my ears, in the half circles that cup the tendon at the back of my foot. I know it’s not a clock, with it’s sudden speed and quickening. (Though it has everything to do with gray roots hidden under mahogany lies. It has every aspect of short windedness when I count what has gone by. It is knowing the longer I wait, the less likely I will be a mother.) There is no tense whirr of wound parts. It’s a careening pulse, a pushing thrust of my own heart which needs to punch its rhythm into a faster rotation and amplify itself to be copied. A loud pacing that steps together once it starts another. |
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