The Reviews Are In…

She beat her heart into a mold and
poured the ink carefully, heated by just the right fires
to stay molten, made sure the lines had
to cool without cracking, as many industrial types suggest,
and when she chipped away the pieces of her heart
to reveal the sharp-edged thing beneath,
she polished and buffered, for days,
for months,
for years,
until a perfect impression of each chamber and
each thought remained.
She submitted it to great acclaim,
by the end of her life it was written of:
“a minor work,
of little worth to the movement.”

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