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HOME 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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