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by Greta Ross

The soap that lives in my drawer
is your old conglomerate,
its once Ivory core invaded
by odds and ends from baths and sinks:
Camay pinks and Simple blues
bearing the imprint of your thumb.
Its smell recalls how you clung to self
dissolving like the soap you saved
as if salvaging scraps of memory
by smoothing out cracks, tears,
flakes in the tectonic plates of this ball
that once was Lux, Lifebuoy and Pears.
I find again your fingerprints
in the fist-shaped mass, and feel
in this strange way we can still
hold hands.

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