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KIRSTEN MCDONALD

80 Hands

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With shells for shovels,

we make a moat so deep

the water creeps

up from the bottom.  

 

We slip sand from our fingers

forming towers and turrets

Until my brother stands

sandy and sly.

 

I shake my head.

“Momma said no.”

But he laughs.  

“I ain’t goin’ deep.”

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