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we’re good at making
something from nothing,
laying ideas on tables,
working in primaries like children,
while somehow group efforts urge
pastiches of opposing bias.
stripes wave into jazzy
ribbons of syncopation,
stars dart toward black holes,
patterns are no longer uniform
and fragments of old glory
fit ever-changing models.
using scissors, thread,
presser foot and ingenuity,
we piece together bodices of industry,
sew languid sleeves that drift
like weathered leaves through water,
zip catches of years of frenetic aggression,
let out waistbands from overindulgence,
craft new American identities
from designer to knock-off,
immediate and ready to wear.

Cynthia Gallaher
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