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The billowing skirt twirls so the woman twirls so the world twirls in a dizzy blur of broken lamps and jangly earrings- the cob lost in the sea of kernels scattered across the room- the bursting radio and glinting kitchen knife waltzing to the violins and pianos and drums pouring out of open window and into the humid night- arms outstretched like a sideways windmill chanting a spell to keep the ruby-eyed vultures away- the checkered tiles are stained with a salty ketchup, she’ll need to get that fixed- game won: the black queen just checkmated the black king- who would’ve seen that coming- the owl eyes of the pawns stare from behind the bars on the stairwell- she beckons to them to join her fairy’s dance and be freed from their pure jail but dark red molasses glues the white cygnets to the floor- a shame but that’s okay because who cares about the grotesquely posed mannequin lying in the middle of the chess board when the moths swarming the lamp outside are singing she’s free free free, when the three-inch heels clacking against the slippery floor are singing she’s free free free, when the fresh and shiny and watermelon-flavored chains (only a dime, get them anywhere) squeezing the ink-stained swan’s neck are singing she’s free free free because she's free free free


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