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284 the widows’ handbook The Young Widow Revives Phyllis Wax The earth thaws, sucks at my boots. Sap’s oozing. The mild air fluffs my heart. I find myself moving the ring to my right hand, eyeing male faces. The indolence of winter drops away. Birds gather twigs and build, start over each day. Buds loosen, dogs race and play. I think I’ll shave my legs. ...

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