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It was a dream

in which my greater self

rose up before me

accusing me of my life

with her extra finger

whirling in a gyre of rate

at what my days had come to.

What, I pleaded with her, could I do?

Oh what could I have done?

And she twisted her wild hair

and sparkled her wild eyes

and screamed as long as I could hear her.

This. This. This.

-Lucille Clifton

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