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20 ConCorDanCE It is nineteen forty-seven. Somewhere in Pittsburgh steel spits in a cooling tank. Somewhere in Gary iron curves toward flame. And, this could be anywhere, a woman reconsiders his final letter, marks with her finger welts the sentences left on the page. Outside it is December. Her garden is a crop of stone. We have language to describe a woman like this. Even in summer her tomatoes grow yellow-skinned and rock-hearted. She will keep her windows closed even under the blue flame of August days. We have many terms that define distance. We might say once, when she was a thin-necked girl, one man collapsed the many intricacies of heaven into the four syllables it took to spell her name. There must be a phrase that explains this desire. She questions her response. Did she read his plan right? Somewhere in Milwaukee men stir hops and thirst for sweet abandon. When she was a slim-fingered girl no ring suited her taste. We have plenty of words to describe a woman like that. But now, since she followed the tracks laid in his eyes? Her whole life a coupled string of freight and rusting emptiness? Those children waving, running beside her through the sun-scorched yard? ...

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