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If they’re numb over there, and all around her, she’ll gather the nerve endings spilled on the streets, she’ll count them like rice grains she’ll keep them for when they’re needed for music and the ornaments of air without bombing, for bread and honey, the kilos of figs in December and baked yams from burnt fingered vendors, the washing to be done, the sewing, the bicycles to be repaired, the daily lists to be made of mundane matters, like the cost of sugar, or the girl losing her new pencils again and not to say, for the memories of the forgetful, the spinners of silences, the teethed impasto of broadcasts The Poetry of Dionne Brand / 31 ...

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