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Mauri

Mauri painted her toenails the other day on a dare from herself: one foot blue, the other black. Afterwards she wore slides, then sandals, then no shoes at all. Nobody noticed her toes.

Mauri sits with her toes in her hands on her bed. On the wall, between two windows, is a print of a Cornell box, which flattens it out but who cares. Outside the window in the Cornell box it’s blue. Her son is throwing his father’s clothes out the window into the white sky, shouting. Mauri squeezes her toes in time to blue skies, wet sand, green bottles.

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