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THE ALCHEMY OF MOTHERING The pot boils gunmetal blue. I hang my babies like shanks of meat, smallest to largest. My butcherwhite apron smeared with child mucus. A swab of sugar under the tongue keeps their small bodies from coiling like earthworms. The toes go first. They do not cry. Metal permeates youth quickly. They shine like chain mail. They cool on the back porch, silvery cherubs among roses and aloe. It takes them months to learn to move in their new bodies. It takes all my life to see their faces this way—my hands black and burned through to the bone and scarred by the imprint of eyes that are my eyes. My science is the science of war. 59 ...

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