© By Joan Newmann

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Forty years ago in brand-new sandals
Running sponge-soled and clumsy,
Wanting to walk with the music and being
Trapped between my aunt’s tight hand and the skin
Of a Lambeg drum;
Frayed cane beating on my solar plexus;
Stamen of orange lily; worn leather straps;
Bellying banner: nostrils clog
To the pulsing smell of other people’s flesh,
Mustiness of the inside of other people’s wardrobes.

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