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87 Divine Women: The Woodblocks of Utamaro Along฀the฀rock-shaved฀shore,฀they฀sit, breasts฀dappled฀and฀open฀to฀the฀daylight. Their฀red฀robes,฀slack฀across฀their฀salt-glistened฀backs, hang฀above฀the฀rising฀tide,฀within฀the฀slow arrival฀of฀rain.฀There฀is฀nothing but฀silence,฀not฀a฀single฀word฀hovers฀near฀them. They฀look฀down,฀lost฀in฀the฀language฀of฀waiting. Miles฀out฀on฀the฀ocean’s฀ineffable฀lift฀and฀toss, the฀fishermen฀fling฀their฀weave฀of฀nets,฀stand counterpoint฀in฀the฀roil,฀wait,฀then฀haul in฀their฀catch,฀sort฀groundfish฀from฀eel and฀feel฀the฀women฀taking฀them฀into฀the฀nothingness of฀thrust฀and฀calm:฀alone,฀the฀night,฀time฀empty as฀the฀lure฀of฀space฀between฀the฀stars. Here฀the฀women฀know฀there฀is฀no฀hope. They฀reach฀into฀the฀sea,฀let฀the฀intuition฀of฀fingers feel฀for฀the฀abalone.฀When฀they฀cut฀one฀from฀its฀shell, they฀imagine฀tasting฀its฀pink฀tongue฀of฀flesh, the฀sea฀dripping฀from฀their฀hands,฀the฀salt singeing฀their฀open฀palms.฀By฀their฀sides, the฀weathered,฀brown฀wicker฀baskets฀soak in฀the฀wet฀air.฀They฀will฀fill฀them฀in฀the฀only฀way they฀know฀of฀being฀in฀the฀world.฀The฀wild฀young฀boy who฀never฀leaves฀them,฀reaches฀above฀their฀robes as฀if฀the฀moles฀on฀their฀breasts฀are฀stars. ...

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