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Photograph of Plath Because her lips are parted roughly, shaped like a scream, I want to turn away for a second as if she were the young girl burned by napalm. But I know she isn’t suffering, only speaking. So I look, the way I looked through The Bell Jar for words that pointed somewhere you can’t get back from. When I crossed the border to that other country myself, a woman said to me, very gently, you walk like a foreigner. Is there anything hidden here, in her face? (Snow-fields hoarding white owls) I want to let it land on my sleeve and let it fly back. 47 ...

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