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Devi Lockwood

Great Circles


I step out of my skin, my gender,

my place-names, leave them in a pile


on the bathroom floor. The new language slides

like an egg-yolk down my throat.


At dusk three shoeless boys kick a ball

of plastic bags tied together by twine.


My world is made by thatched huts

that stand up and walk on feet of their own.


Some things follow me across borders:

love, honey-thick, insecurity.


If I choose any direction and walk

for long enough, I’ll find the sea.


There are other kettles to boil,

leaves and soil and the hand-written


placards of a revolution.

In a dusty town, the youngest


of three brothers flies a kite,

rolls spool after spool of footprints


onto the roof of the sky.

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