of Christina Rossetti's "From Monna Innominata"
Riffing off of the lines, "Many in aftertimes will say of you / "He lov'd her"--while of me what will they say?
You loved her hands, how each line of her palm looked on the page--
as if they had lived more lives than she. Capable of being read
while she read, the sulfur burned blue in her eyes like a tune made
for the smallest constellations, a dying melody. You loved her steady
sickness, its grinding bones. Her name hollow and flat under lamplight.
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