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17 T e rm s o f B e l i e f We, the walking wounded, like Thomas, need the scars to believe— but our own: scab, clean line of the paper cut that seals up. We want to be the lepers who walked away, healed. Here: I was opened up, and the knives did their work. By the grace of God, merely a raised white line. Miraculous body: skin stapled shut sews back together, sawing through a plaster cast reveals the limb, shrunken but healed. I need to know that it happened. That it ended. ...


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