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FIRST WIFE As I was leaving, he called me Lilith. His first act of erasure: my name reduced to a lotus—a part he went to when he tired of coupling with beasts. He wanted me to lie there beneath him—smother in the smell of wool oil and sweat, his tongue a hard slug crawling over me. Yes, I left. And when a woman leaves, she becomes a scandal. His sons said I coupled with Satan—bore him a hundred new demons a day— said I flew around at night, looking for newborns to strangle in their sleep. The people hammered amulets above the beds of pregnant women to warn me away. Still, mine was a slow attrition into apocrypha. After they smoked my eyes, they sealed my dark hair in an urn. They buried the well of my throat, left my nipples to dry, like figs in the dessert. The long columns of my legs were eroded by rumor. Only my dark aria sang through. For centuries, celebrants  slept with one hand on their crotch, one hand on a crucifix—afraid I might conjure a sweet dream. Finally, they took me out of the story. Perhaps you think I’m exaggerating. But consider that poor, docile girl, pulled from Adam’s own rib to replace me— She tried to leave, too. You’ve heard what they say about her.  ...

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