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35 • ANATOMy Call it a great wood wing, ebony sail for a vessel anchored in pine. Its curve can pass for a spine: dip of dark an invitation to hammered timbre, a sound that can’t be bartered. Music is always, Grandma said when she parted my scalp, hot with the tug of her heavy hand. Cool blue pomade quelled the fire until the next pull, the next match strike of the steel-toothed rake, her seasoned fingers. Call it irrigation. Grandma cut paths 36 • in fields of black cotton, giving back a love like the piano, black well of sound, its night & day fingers anticipating the reach of mine. Tell me that’s not my body in tone & touch, that both of us don’t break, bleed. ...

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