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41 Dream In Which I Meet Myself Even the butter’s a block of sleazy light. I see that first, as though I am a dreary guest come to a dreary supper. On her table, its scrubbed deal trim and lonely as a cot, is food for one, and everything we’ve ever hated: a plate of pallid grays and whites is succotash and chops are those dark shapes glaring up at us. Are you going to eat this? I want to ask; she’s at the stove dishing up, wearing that apron black and stiff as burned bacon, reserved for maids and waitresses. The dream tells us: She is still a servant. Even here. So she has to clean our plate. It’s horrible to watch. She pokes the bits of stuff into her mouth. The roll’s glued shut like a little box with all that sticky butter. Is this all living gets you? The room, a gun stuck in your back? Don’t move, it says. She’s at the bureau lining up bobby pins. Worried and fed up I wander to the window with its strict bang of blind. My eyes fidget and scratch. And then I see myself: I am this dream’s dog. I want out. emmanuel noose i-62.indd 41 1/4/10 4:32 PM ...

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