Karen Holman Letter to the Wound Dresser Photograph by Michael Moreth I lay in the sun like compost, steam rising from soup, in such terrible singing I knew there was no God. Yet I died and saw his face. He kissed my hand then pressed his beard against my cheek, so a valve gave way and the steam of my urine met the steam of my blood. I woke thinking I felt his beard again on my face, but it was flies democratic as the mercy of God.

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