touching the air that would have been his feet
touching the mirage that would have been his skin
touching the haze that would have been his face.
concerned citizens come up and surround her
in rubber boots and coveralls and a helmet
there, there
they were careful not to look at her face.
in solitude, she throws pennies off a cliff, kneeling.
the townspeople burn their preventive suits from a distance.
staring at the sun, Magdalene counts until she runs out of coins.
one by one, as if rosary beads,
she snap segments of her fingers off
the smell of burnt plastic searing her nostrils.
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