Something full of platelets pulses in her throat.
She's seen the blue borderlands of veins
that carve a baby's scalp into continents,
she has traced them with a finger,
wondering at the smell of digestives
and the sensation of peach fuzz on whorl.
Sometimes, in her dreams, she slides battalions
across a great map, tugging on a cheroot
between casualty reports. Each model soldier's skull
is hidden by a black bicorn. She shunts them,
cold as love, a brass field telescope
snug within her opera glove.
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