That I could tell the bend-arm, bend.
That I could cinch the emptiness, enough to play.
That I could daresay myself, radio through myself.
That I could brush the living hair, pin it—myself.
That I could be a door to a room, waiting.
That I could not close my eyes.
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Margaret Hanshaw is a poet and writer from Sudbury, Massachusetts. Her poems have appeared in New American Writing, West Branch, Bennington Review, Verse Daily, VOLT, Vallum, Posit, Prelude, and elsewhere. She is author of the chapbook Yellow Ripe (dancing girl press).