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45 Jeffersonville, Indiana, 1983 Why we are sure tired. The grocery carts, drifting pods. Our mistakes steeped in the dull milk bath. Our worst crop nebulous, gray, seeded. The heat. Hurry, we’ve run out of each other, silent and spiteful—children from prim dumb women, deft with scissors. The world full of butterscotch, paper dolls around the head like a tight white crown, brown bag chain-link garlands droop. The heat. Any minute now. Death-defying. Plucking raisins out of carpet, knee to shag. Morning, glass and phone, morning oh my, watch and sewing, tomato pincushion red breast, miscarriage . Why was that the doorbell. It was such grace, heard from inside this fireplace. What precision. This sticky toothed heat, willows, locusts. My what empty. What lapping shadowy strides. Shuffleboard sand, here’s to a speedy recovery, patent leather shoes like a fist. ...

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