--Karina BorowiczThere was another countryalways spoken ofwith reverence.I didn’t understandwhy we’d left, I didn’t yetunderstand the saw bladeof history. I was nourishedby nostalgia for a placeI couldn’t remember.Wasn’t there a great forest,a bison that would lapmilk from my hand?The scrape of that secretdark tongue.A woodsman’s cottage,shelves lined with carvedand painted birds.Our fireplace was wherethe stories were readfrom a burning book.Molten logs, lit from within:See the shadow of a manin there. See a terrifyingcreature with wings.See it all fall down.
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