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Belt: 1975 Part southern, part rust belt: in Huntington, train tracks suture down the Ohio River’s dingy skein. Eleven years old, onTuesday evenings you watch smokestacks spew sinister questions; you listen to the untuned bass of tires as your granddaddy drives across one bridge, then another. Still, some beauty left here—on the flood bank, a row of houses he calls painted ladies, and in the blue one your own guitar teacher files snags from your nails, speaks Italian names for each finger. You have never spoken like this, with richness held to your tongue, never had 11 a more refined tone on the guitar than now, that angle he trains in your hand.The rasp and plink you taught yourself at home lengthen to cantabile with the right blend of flesh-to-nail. Tell me about your lesson Granddaddy asks, driving you home, tugs your wrist to his lap, and the gape below the buckle.Your mouth recites names as they harden into amber.The town passes, grays in your window, night coming, with metal in the teeth. 12 ...

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