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The last time I felt it, my body small
and hard as a gulls’ egg
washed and brown by the bay, my sister
moved wide and spinning
through a white whirlwind of sopping foam–
dropped down,
  down,

on hilltops, me bigger now,
confused, but still following her little feet
whispering through daffodils.
We crawl to the edge of the earth.

I do it now–
  crawl. Push my awkward body
stupidly beneath picnic benches,
through sticky firs,
trek circles around war monuments,
knees shunting through the grass.

I drop to catch my breath,
hot and ashamed, the green rasp
against my palms I call back,
  call and call
beneath a cry of creamy gulls,
a woman now, silky-thighed
with poppies inked on her ankles,
  searching for home.

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