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60 True Events And the father, once so broad-shouldered finally living beneath such boulders. To get big is to see the brittle quality of giants— exquisite and queasy, those heights for me. Doubt was my co-star, irony my flavor. Traded me for my dumb, and these would be the years called Rending Off the Bone. The earth beneath our feet spits lightning into the sky from revelation such as: the infrequency of family, the fading glow of elixir, that youth can vanish as if by spell. This had been the mother’s curse and story. Hands gnarled like gingerroot from clutching at paper towels and I’m just finding my place in our place, all that she wants. What narrow roads we’re offered and what enormous bales of Hope on my back to carry through the village in place of her, for her. Divided into bundles for the whole nest of us, it’s less than something, more than nothing. But to disengage, to fly off of to oneself as vocation . . . such experiment. I can’t find corresponding choice in the mirror. ...

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