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shaped like a Cross. Though ripened in years,
Isabella learned Medicine, became a missionary.
She placed a wicker basket on her head
where India, Iran, Turkey and Kurdistan dozed in the sun,
chasing adventures with guns and bandages.
Yet when she mounted a black stallion in Morocco,
a Sultan’s gift --
using a ladder, tiny as she was –
she thought of her sister
as the hand helping her climb.
Her sister, like a sudden scent of powdered sugar
was blown on the wind –
her sister’s neck a chimney, her hair a home,
her soul, a fireplace.