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I count thirty moles on my left arm only
remember twisting my neck contorting
to see one on my back tiny bathroom
mirror exact same spot on cousin mother
in Hungarian mother mark/ticket – the time
suspecting ticks she ogled a magnifying
glass pass the tweezer avoid the thicket
mother ticket each a mark of being burnt
run to her through tunnel carved by
light crawl back to a time a cord linked us
now a phone line mole on our back map
to navigate mines fragments linger
wait in the sun for a one-way ticket
mother to burrow back home to you
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