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White on white on white.
Her face. The gown. The sheets.
A pale horizon sprinkled with black stars,
Constellations in an inverted sky.
The space between her arms was my universe.
With index fingers
I drew patterns on her birthmarks
And she held me and my dear life. 
Lovingly held.
Now desperately holding.
White on white on white. The sheets. The gown. Her face. The sky has aged. But the stars remain. Since I can no longer fit in the space between her arms, My hands relieve the void between hers. Soon, the butchers will draw patterns with steel fingers And she is clutching me for dear life.
Carefully, methodically, the sky will go from white to red And if things go well back to white And if things go badly back to white, and white Growing paler for the rest of eternity Until the stars return to where they belong.
Deborah Plana
Published in Issue 38