in the orchard's southern corner
far from the homestead's din and glow
i buried myself beneath the cherry blossoms
dead eyes to the april moon
dead skin to the cold wind
dead limbs to the moist earth
i wept for all the people
i was never allowed to be
and those i would never become
from their lives i wove a shroud
which i cut with my obsidian knife
which i smashed with a child's headstone
then i rose
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