Lucille Clifton – sorrows

who would believe them winged
who would believe they could be
beautiful         who would believe
they could fall so in love with mortals
that they would attach themselves
as scars attach and ride the skin
sometimes we hear them in our dreams
rattling their skulls         clicking their bony fingers
envying our crackling hair
our spice filled flesh
they have heard me beseeching
as I whispered into my own
cupped hands       enough not me again
enough       but who can distinguish
one human voice
amid such choruses of desire
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