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45 Antigua The IV warms a tendon in her elbow, rubs sugar on the bone. He traces her ribs. Puts a finger where the robe caves closest to her chest. Etches a spidery crack on her forehead (sugar, the glitter thrown at the skull). Today, the monitor’s tongue is green. Or it is striking at a green-headed bird on someone’s arm. Who put so much into that lark bone we found in the reeds? Breaks the honeysuckle against her teeth. Is this the water’s edge? No, it’s a needle. How will I know? It will look like a river. What if it freezes? (Puts the machine in the sun to warm her; a single, frictionless thought slips through the slack water in her medicine.) ...

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