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Split from her husband, D. sets
at the entrance to her new apartment
the encased geisha she bought at Expo '67.
Its hair is loose; she'll wait
for a calm day to glue it.





In the Japanese Pavilion,
she may have brushed past N.,
my mother's late friend, who bought a doll
three years later in Osaka. Each may have had,
already, death embedded in her.





Don't we all? But D.'s hair is growing back,
her daughter's about to arrive, and she serves tea
on a tray strewn with pink blossoms.
The blacker the bark, the greener
the leaves, the pinker the blossoms.






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