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27 Tick Check Freckled, stippled, brind’ed as Hopkins’ poem . . . My dear, you must check me, tick off my moles, arrayed as they are across the vast skin of me. Connect the dots and check each spot. Trace the sensory path, my melanin-bearing mother’s half, outlining my shoulders, elbow to wrist— the star map of my arms ready to enfold you. First, check my one dun-colored breast, and mocha-splashed chest, the pale divide descending between left and right, dermatomes inherited in patterned bits. You’ll have to trace, smooth a finger along every speck and fleck, decide is it mole or mite? Or forgetting the task entirely, simply touch all of me. ...

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