Francesca Bell

PERIMENOPAUSE Mornings now, I shave the dusky downmoustache from my upper lip.My skin, unused to the razor’s bladingglide, its scrape,...
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Francesca Bell

Five years into your child’s illness, / when you can no longer conceive of life / without its dank presence, you see / a blanched sky bearing a trace of rose / and the moon, risen huge—

Francesca Bell

Each month comes the reminder / of the gash God made in me. / I like to think He made it / with one finger, the way an artist / will reach right into a painting / and finish it off.

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