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61 Marie Curie Gives Advice to Her Daughter Irene before Her Wedding I remember this moment —the pram distilled; its sediment was an infant, no longer something born from me, not residue, not pitchblende, but its own particle, an open mouth, a cry, within its head, a mind wresting with thoughts —my motherland could be there, driven into the skull, some ancient homing. And now years have passed and I have soaked in radium. I’ve begun to bleed light. I hear myself tell you: A white wedding gown will stain. Instead choose a navy blue suit with solid stitching. Who says such things? A woman who despises her own grief; your father crossing streets in rain — I see him; the doors are locked, his umbrella fills with wind, the horses approach, hauling a wagon of soldiers’ uniforms — something to dress the dead — it’s come to crush him. And since then I’ve begun to confuse the glowing test tubes 62 with wicks of the moon, a dazing field of stars, my own soul, and a moment goes by when I forget the brutish charm of work. My hope, daughter, is that what you love doesn’t come to kill you, eye by eye, ear by ear, bone by radiant bone. ...

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