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2003-02-15

Dolly
B. 7.5.96 Edinburgh / D. 2.14.03 Edinburgh
Lung Infection / Euthanasia

Six years old when she should have lived twelve.
Dolly’s like Franz Schubert; she’s like Emily Brontë or Rimbaud’s muse,
prematurely snatched.
An empty pen where “her” body
chops and all
last bleated and swooned
reminds me:
I didn’t go to Manhattan for the protest rally today.
Sat home when I should have been chilling my blood
within me or spilled
on a cordoned sidewalk while mounted police circled and reared.
I listened to Don Giovanni
live from the Met (as I could have done at the barricades on the transistor radio I've bought just in case; and I regretted missing that second bird during the overture)
“my” choice
my genes in an ancient aspic of opera and steam heat and cats
keeping.

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