My fingernail, your pancreas,your palm, starving tribes in the Sudan.My esophagus, Joan of Arc’s enflamed hair. Your mother’s lungs, La Brea.Your neck, a lighthouse’s spiral staircase, my eyes, a beacon over turbulent waters.Your conscience, below the surface;my fingers, holding it there. My heart valves, the locks along the Erie Canal,reining things in, keeping things from getting out of…

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