She lived in a box, tied up with string,
holes punched on the sides, so she could breathe.
Inside, was everything she needed--
potatoes and beans, a blanket, and a book of poems
by Robert Frost. She sat in the middle of a meadow,
quiet and always. One morning, a tap, insistent,
but quiet. Whose fingers are that tender?
she thought, remembering her father's coarse
lined skin. Can I come in? a gentle voice said.
She paused a pause the length of Texas, then
heard the string pull against string, loosening
what she used as a lock. He unlocked her.
He came in.
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