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[77] Patient Your letter arrives with a second envelope inside, wrapped in a sheet of paper. Each end’s fastened with a safety pin, a paper diaper, on both sides of which you’ve penned Be careful in heavy ballpoint. I am lucid, you write, citing for the first time the name of your shrink, and include a poem about a lady with a stick called “You’re Wrong, Sam. It’s Done Enormous Harm.” Beneath the poem you’ve scrawled I may live. You don’t explain when I phone. I imagine you dragging your pocket comb through a mass of tangled hair. Your voice careens up and down the scale too fast to stop and you laugh as if I’m supposed to know. The following week I hear you’ve been admitted to the psych ward, signed yourself in. Who exists under the mask you’ve ripped away? I decide not to visit you there. [78] I think of rows of plastic babies in Kresge’s Five and Dime when we were kids. Barely three inches long, wrapped in thin cotton blankets, pink or blue, fastened with small gold pins. We held them close, although nothing on their bodies moved, and their painted eyes stared up as if there were things in this world they didn’t want to see. ...


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Related ISBN
MARC Record
Launched on MUSE
Open Access
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