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The Ripper’s Bride Since a woman, I washed blood from whites.What was a little more, even if not my own? Love is balance, a sacrifice of placement: modulation, the way he said our eldest died, half-born, to make room. Others have not yet come, but will, faces fat like suns.The way my mother hushed: half of you is lost, but half you will keep close like cloth. Scrubbing married stains.They dried like lunar phases, my hands blanching in the cool water.You think it wasn’t possible for him to love? Everyone loves, knows what to do, does not question what love is. Instead they say, under his blade in the dark ways, the women made no sound. Of course not. How could they know, like me, they were being asked for the answer? -44- ...

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