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371 Not the Poet, Not Me The Tilted Knot Carol Guess Widowed both, when we finished sitting shiva we shared shy glances at Central Synagogue. I thought of her more than I should have, I know. They say the guilty return to the scene, but what of the innocent? For a time I stood accused because of my access to Rose Fishman’s room. For thirty years I’ve cleaned apartments on Hester and Essex. Now all I see is that fishbowl room, bottles of perfume, pink towels askew. I found her strangled with her bathrobe belt. Thought I’d go to jail until a cop paused at the knot. Tilted up, as if she’d hung. Threads on the door where her garment was torn. ...

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