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44 6 1 2 a They’ve brought in light, boiled in tubes. ceilings and walls, tiles and sheets, a dozen whites distill the eye. only my flesh can compete. The nurses sail upstream and down in their windcaps, and soon an avalanche of smocks, with faces cloudy as the diagnosis: “here, blood makes a spot. The abdomen still pouts.” Last year they took away an ovary. troubled friend, she swims in a glass jar in the basement. and my liver, old soup pot crowded with leftovers. it makes bad broth. i’ve sautéed it in cheap gin, the juice from two husbands. christ, they’ll wrap it up in bacon! The peppermint girl sponges me off. Breast by breast, limb by limb (“The woman in 17 B is having her nipples redone”), and saves the crotch for last. now the priest rides in on little smiles. i love him for his blacks, they do well on him. i’ll confess—every night i take him in with Demerol—a kind of communion. his touch will be the last, his fingers greasy on my lips. This death part i rehearse, i rehearse—i think i’m getting the hang of it. ...

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