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Text version below
I Want the Sunflowers, My Hair Messy Like their Hair
I Want the Sunflowers, My Hair Messy Like their Hair,
the past-due raggedness of rays. I want, like my son,
the milk when the milk's in my hand, mama when mama's
beside him, willing his aching to stop. I don't know
what I want, but I like the sway of construction
paper dinosaurs hanging from the ceiling:
Don't take those.
Martha Silano
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