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Everywhere she
visits she buys the best, Wedgwood, Pfaltzgraff, Lladro from Spain. She ships it home, nervous until she and the china are put to bed. Gifts others bring her she places in a cabinet, butterflies pinned under glass. She doesn't need to touch these, dust them, run her tongue along the rims. They aren't hers; she hasn't slept in those paradors, drank cafe au lait, shopped at Herrod's to buy these treasures. To embrace these is to lie. The givers don't know this, imagining their souvenirs hold places of honor. Instead, it's the china she bought herself she treasures, unearthing them from tissue cocoons, placing them on her comforter. It's these she studies when she undresses, waiting for the silence to crack, the beating of wings. (To copy or translate this poem, please contact JULIE KING) TRANSLATOR and ILLUSTRATOR WANTED FOR THIS PAGE
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