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40 First Boyfriend I remember his house.The grooves in the foyer’s slate cupping my feet.A lily bloom sighing open in a dish of water by the door with the mail.The kitchen’s neat rows of nested celadon bowls. Cobalt spice jars in niches on the wall. Before I remember the soft, fraying seams of his t-shirts, the cotton washed to mesh, I remember the way everything in his living room—the red velveteen sofa, the night-blooming cereus—glowed like an ember under the light of a huge winged horse pawing a mat by the wall: part of a neon sign scavenged from the Mobil station’s demolition. I remember the dining room, the slats of yellow light rising from the basement through original floorboards; I remember standing riveted in light like a cage and his hands taking cues from the house, learning to undo me with small touches like light on my wrists and waist— I remember his house. I remember through those empty rooms. ...

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