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A CONTINUOUS EMBROIDERY The sky's blue deepens to meet the darkness of trees. In the window an old woman's face looks at me, yellow in the yellow light. I can see the grain, the winnowing, the chaff cupped in her hands— an indiscriminateharvest, years of shadows settling in like birds. 2. What is it to look at your hands and see the veins, at last, completely emerge? To feel your body's surface erode? In the quiet nights, all the stark lace-work starts to come undone, the fine nerve-net releases its music gently into the dark. 3I asked my grandmother about this but she told me lies, stories she'd heard from her own grandmother, re-worked. I asked my grandmother again and she called me by her dead sister's name— May, she murmured, May. 64 1. ...

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