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73 Home Brew Neatly tamped grounds of organic French roast remind me that you always made a second pot after dinner, and the coffee certainly wasn’t organic, and dinner wasn’t tofu either—Italian sausage, bulky and juicy (metaphor so obvious neither of us brought it to speech). Yes, you were feeding me the fat sausages, the hot green pickles and the Rabelaisian kim-chee, stinking and fizzing from its pressure-packed jar. You’re newlywed now, making a home in some new city, with more than that scuzzy iron skillet, I’ll wager, though the feel would be the same, the stubborn denial of domestic comforts, steady money, a paper-white collar folded over a tie. I’m reading your favorite poet again, and his mad first wife, same as I did when you were Him to my Her— or something like—the pronouns get confusing, though when you look at them up close, they look like coffee grounds, before the boiling water trickles through them—dry grounds on thin, bleached paper, waiting to be leached of their juices, siphoned into Pyrex, then thrown into the sink or trash, only the brown stain left. 74 This page intentionally left blank. ...

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