"Consumption"
I remember a butter
voice whisper, the cool
of a stethoscope
on my chest.
Consumption,
like eating,
like learning to sew.
Like coughing
in shades of silk.
I remember, in soft-edged
photos, only the maids.
Papa, a doorframe shadow
at best.
Sponge baths like the sea,
and faint murmurs
of my insides wanting out.
I spoke in two voices.
I remember the day no once came.
The white linens swallowed me,
spattered in my broken lungs.
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