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34 Order That taming god, who comforteth and calmeth all the flares and tares of life, ranging our days with patterns ever meet and fitting You braided your hair in two neat plaits five times a day, checking the back with mirrors, rebraiding wisps that tufted awry. The crisp comb parted down the back of your scalp, then you twined each half in three equal sections, rubber-banded, tied ribbons on each tail—one red, one navy blue to match your new outfit—knit pants miraculously long enough, a bright red hooded sweater. Once a day you unfolded the frayed note from a boy you loved. Smeared pencil, bad spelling. Thrill. Terror. You reveled in what Order would admit to the clean space that masked your chalky adolescent heart, its object safely ignorant, miles away. Back home? Chaos—but at Grandmother’s condo you basked in purity for three whole days: no clutter in the white room where you slept, no forced hellos, strangers with prickling questions, no one outside the known, the grounded, sound. Surrender your storms now, girl, so you can worship the god of Order who hath each hour numbered and counted as he hath each pistil of a daffodil, each fish-scale or mouse-tooth, each laundered hair on your unbounded head. ...

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