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She has to answer back, like a song title or something lost. Because some poets are too good not to. And while it’s understood it’s not you, her pacing replies like the dance on canvas after the bell. Telling, telling outside the ropes, almost hoping for the count. Down she goes by a ghost of an opponent who only wrote something that hit. Fit like a gloveless fist that threw that towel soaked in sweaty nights.
She’s not a fighter. She’s a writer fed by word punches, hunches, heard at a ding.
Answering back, because some poets are too good not to.

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