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Excerpt:

​That’s how it goes. I write words down; I catch
the men red-handed- I should feel like the director
casting roles and doling out the good lines-
Instead I think of my literary foremothers
who swam deep into a foreign text- All that churned-up; wide-
open water; and they like white caps making
everybody angry-
One stroke at a time; one breath, one self-
bestowed permission.