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44 Standish Avenue
- University of Pittsburgh Press
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40 44 Standish Avenue Can’t I make something of her bed, our sleep, and the white seam opening between us, our shared afternoons in the rendition house where my nursing ended and trying-to-be-perfect began, when I was swept into forbiddance, then tucked down, her body my lean-to after an hour of knitting (in which her voice vibrated accordingly), not long before I borrowed her Irish sigh? She was the spine and I was the cross and both of us knew the curse of a blind mole burrowing. When we lay with each other in her bed, the point was to be still, not to sleep, but she fell anyway while animals passed over us, plastic stars. Above I saw a spider’s testimony, and pink walls, 41 until in my first dream, a crow landed on my chest and pecked at my face, meaning, as I now believe, that I should have listened when she said this is how you burrow, this is how you knead, this is how you hold your breath in a tunnel. ...