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They put us in the crypt,

my twin and I. She died

before we were born—

oh many years ago.

I eat the dark so she can see me.

She plucks an acorn from my iris,

says my eyes are the precise colour

of forest floor she’d imagined.

Tugging at my raven-wings,

she asks to keepsake one black feather.

She swims in my sea-skirt

and when she tires,

gathers perfect pebbles.

A collector, I think.

‘I’ve resolved to collect you too,’

she murmurs, counting six

fingers on her left hand. 

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