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21 The Chorus Rubs on Children’s Sunscreen We grieve. We grieve. We crinkle the corners of sheets in our fists, try to fold the cloth. A battle flag. If there were candles, flames would drip stalactites of blushed wax. We know where the garbage bags are, clean as unlicked envelopes, scented: a knifed lemon. You there. We know about you. You could be waking to an alarm. Your pillow holds your dreaming brain. You are allowed to be thoughtless, to live in a normal way—wherever you are. You walk to the market, thinking in the freckled shade. Flies bury stained-glass wings, blue, in the moist locks of hair above your ears. Or, you drive, strapping the triangle weave of the seat belt across your heart. Your heart can or cannot be heard like a freight train pulsing the air outside our childhood bedrooms. The neighborhood kids assigned roles in their games, and one child tried to spell “hate” with a marker on a paper napkin: I hat you. We protect our eyes. Sunroofs cut the parked cars drooling oil from their pipes. We protect our skin. Smell. Bowls of grapefruit skins weigh the trash, a system of scales: You. You. You are falling asleep somewhere. ...

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