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The Buried Rib Cage

April 18th 2016

By Eve Grubin

Eve slipped from its arced ridge—
the only body part
you don’t
do evil with:

the eye, the hand,
might beg
corruption;

the ribs are modest
shy crests, ticklish,
an open fan,
not quite sexual, yet not puritan:

delicate accordion
—yawn, moan—
soul breathes through its comb.

 

From the author’s book, Morning Prayer.

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