Her washing line
held one dress,
Grace Kelly like,
large pink flowers
blending to the garden.
Wouldn’t have fitted her for years,
its tiny waist tight folds,
the wash hadn’t taken the mould;

and from the crossbeam in the turf shed,
her hair whitened blond,
her face purpled green.
We cut her down,
her two nephews.
We cut her down.

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