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Kathryn Ugoretz
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The Drought

The faucet’s brass curves to an open
mouth, water streaming to the deep
of our bath. We have only so much—

even shopkeepers pray for rain.
In the factory, workers huddle
on stools with the whirling

of knives. Their wide backs curl as they craft
the metal’s swan dive,
brass speckles glimmering on

their goggles as I enter
the bliss of an afternoon
bath. Their eyes never drift

from the intimate work—only ten
fingers and not one to sacrifice.
I have failed to love you like this.



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