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34 Birds and Old Women No one can live that alone. I wasn’t silent. I fought with birds, old women, brothers, cousins, sweaters. I built barricades with blankets. Who else could say what needed to be said? was what I thought. Shrill and wild. Tear-streaked and angry. Once I flew from the pull of a boat on a parasail, saw down into the ocean and the little shivers wind made over it. If the shivers got big and knocked down the tourists, I could laugh—I wanted to be the shiver so bad I was goosefleshed. Still do. Unholy wish, to be bigger than the ocean, to knock it about. But girl: that’s what you is. ...

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