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J. A. Tyler
A Maker of Babies
A maker of babies that come out half-heartedly or crooked she brews
the weakness into her tea and drinks it into her stomach and it goes
from there to the babies that she births. Every year until now she
has had ten of them, all with a wrong number of fingers or toes, all
with lungs deflated or hearts murmuring twice or three times before
they stop. I make the graves from sandstone so they will wash away
quickly and inform our memories, us the breeders of bowing low
children.
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