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For her we must be macaques on a limb, head pressed, for life, into wet matted head. We live in this setting without name or address. We don’t leave the house for days. We make the long walk to the car, and the longer walk back in memory to our house in the trees. Our arms hang empty at our sides. The new snow gives in to a patch of earth. We peer into the dark spot, into that room, like humans switching off a light. We listen to the stillness. Its breathing. In that body of darkness, in that closed-off room, daddy’s girl is immense in her sleep. She must be beautiful by now. Inconsolable sorrow, we cradle her like humans, very much like humans. our daughter [ 47 ] ...

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