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29 this siDe of paraDise The fixed cat carries a bunny by the scruff of the neck like a kitten, still kicking. What’s that, what’s that? our toddler chants relentlessly, chasing the cat that drops the rabbit then pounces again and again until I can’t stand it and catch her, release the rabbit and hold the cat as she writhes and tries to twist free, fur smearing off onto my hot fingers while I weep, not for the cat or rabbit or even the baby who can’t see where these games lead, not for the numb fatigue that comes from chasing a child all day, soothing all night, but for this morning’s news still whole, unshakable: mother and son curled tenderly to one another as if nursing on the hardwood. I run it again and again through my head in case it might change, the way facts become myth: mother and toddler leap up, embrace, red tulips tumbling from their arms to a gorgeous heap on the floor. Go Dead Slow someone painted on a board by a back road bridge near Fisherman’s Paradise. All summer I praised that spondaic imperative 30 solely for its sounds, not reckoning the cat, the cuts, the paltry songs we make and mean to last. ...

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