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blocking my way into my home place: She says I lived here once. This was my place. I want my pictures. I have them, the glass of the frames is broken, if she comes in she will be my bad ikon, throw me away as I throw her away, her gray unmoving accusing stare. Come Akhmatova in the siege of Leningrad: “Can you write about this?” “I can.” James Wright: in Memory Looking back at me from his death, from the feminine side, he asks me to touch him on his throat, on his breastbone, to touch the spots that have the life in them. His voice is closer to me than I am to myself. Unknowable, beginning in joy, his voice is closer to me than I am to myself. Wish-Mother I’ve never felt so close to you, Wish-Mother. Wings, oh my black darling. Almost free. Never felt so close to anyone. Felt, Hide you in the shelter of my wings. 204 door in the mountain ...

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