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This poem is taken from PN Review 131, Volume 26 Number 3, January - February 2000.

The Found Angel: Nine Poems for Ria Eïng Sujata Bhatt

The Found Angel


We sit in your studio of found objects:
broken things you collect.
    Broken things, useless things you can always use
to make your creatures - twisted figures,
not animal, not human, not of this world -
and yet, somehow they are rooted
        in this world.
        That is your passion, you say,
you cannot let things go.

When you hold up your found angel
she twirls - sturdy wooden spool body,
a crab-shell face - puckered, old -
And wings made of canvas stiff dirty lace.


Two infants were found
        in the grass outside...

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