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19 a r m W r e s t L i n G They have propped their elbows on the back table at maggie’s saloon, two hinges primeval, evolved in natural rubber and bone, a fulcrum where a billion years have swung, and above each hinge a tattoo farm. now we have the hooking up, the forearms join along a seam it could be a kind of mating. two thumbs embrace to make a hitch, then palm to palm, eight fingerhooks. inside each arm a band of muscles, strung and tuned, plays the battle hymn. a gang of nerves. The heart shifts gears, blood hurries along, something triggers in the groin. i know a woman who, if you love her enough, will lie beside you and settle the back of her hand along your cheek, or your temple say, with the palm facing out, to show there is nothing in the hand, a kind of surrender if you like, as if you had won. ...

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