The moisture has climbed out of her throat
and pools in the palms of her hands
that are dripping down the frame of the door
that is supporting her shock in pounds,
sliding down the frame of the door with her
to the scratchy inviting square
that prickles through cotton modesty,
that prickles through to her skin,
her skin that she has left for now,
her skin framed by the door
that is open to the air and the spears of light,
and this is all a new atmosphere
to her because she is a lump against wood,
but floating so steadily in the breeze
and all she can hear is wind chimes on the neighbor's porch,
crying out by strings,
circling melodies in the wind,
clanging chaos and harmony all at once
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