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Inner City The young intern (we’d known her when she was a child)—blonde, cute as a bug— tells us how, in pediatrics, kids come in with roaches up their noses, in their ears. Their parents thought they were congested, couldn’t hear so well, perhaps a cold or Xu, and would an antibiotic do the proverbial trick? We go in with our scopes, our intern says, and Wnd a leg, a fuzzy feeler, piece of shell. Oh, they’re most often dead. . . . We’re feeling creepycrawly now, her words inside our heads Xicking their tiny syllables, their mandibles of sound, bearing the rigid carapace of their dark intonations. And what are we to do with this bit of information, but sit here bug-eyed in the suburbs, as outside on the newmown lawn, a hundred monarch butterXies break out in the air, silently take wing, and rise up in our eyes like a contagion. 11 ...

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