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NeGLIGee, NeGLIGenT, NeGLIGenCe Here, sidlingup to the house where she was raised, the rooms aglow with ghosts, daytime ghosts in cahoots with the sunshine, panes unable to hold a single thing back: her father, squinting at a verse, her mother, licking stamps. Nothing here was a waste oftime. Nothing crept so slowly. Here, the slender neck of Nefertiti rises in limestone from the photographs, All thisfiddle, the ears begin to say, Bl!)ond, the eyebrows say, Nothing nefarious, from the slender shoulders, asyour own heart. What in history would you callyour own? She curls against the brick as best she can, the simple girl, giving her body to the hard wall of memory, the topography of this place home: once she saw a peregrine falcon, heard a hundred pond frogs. And wouldn't you know a girl is only a scrap of soft fabric with legs, walking backwards toward love, strolling sideways toward love, fluttering across the waters in her way. She turns. For all your permanent shimmer, the cloth of my skin is young, is questing, dilapidated with chance. Something, 0 Queen, knows me better than I know myself. God shaped the fIelds of sorghum just so? ...

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