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or more, repenting, restless, in all her wide-eyed nights, to revert or terminate, she finds always in her eyes there start again blinks, specks, those same darned flies. So there’s a weight upon her heart, like a jade vase, Chinese, one thousand years antique, positioned stately by a silk curtain, determined to perpetuate her fears. A weight she can’t budge from her side, an outlandish load she cossets, of nothing certain, wondering… Mary never had, as she fancied she might, murdered anyone in sight, sliced the corpse up, thrown arms and legs into the lake, where they’d not be found, with net, nor dredge, nor by alibi she’d faked. Yet Mary knows, she counts everyone twice over, and tots up, by sunset, that somebody is missing; and so she downcast, thinking sits, …upset. (inspired by John Berryman, Dreams Songs). © Sylvia Evelyn, Buenos Aires, Argentina, 2009.