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4 Letter to a Friend Who Has Asked to Come Till the roadwork on Route 70 loaned me words, I didn’t know how to tell you. No. My shoulder’s closed. No more trips here, Sister, to weep over your lost babies. It gets harder to hear you over their jagged cries. Lightning cracking the sky in half at midnight. Raw wakefulness. Them breathing next to me in bed. Why can’t he hear them, your latest man, warming your hands in your midtown restaurants? Maybe if you tried to climb the ladder of your grief at losing him, you could also lose the habit of calling his house, his wife lifting the receiver as you whisper hello, hello. Or isn’t the pressure of grief enough to blow the lid off habit? Listen, I’m her! A wife. Have you noticed? When you called to tell me how you two danced, you caught me with both hands in the diaper pail. Then hearing you, I would spin myself into your dark clubs, that sexy pivoting. I admit, I loved slipping into your silk life! Oh, Sister, Sister, I have gone places in your body and been spared the doctor afterward! And where are your children? You’ve seen mine. They’re beautiful. They say they love me. The names of your children, scrawled 5 by lightning across this black night sky, are Emptiness and Hunger. My God, emptiness and hunger! And you, at the window, lonely. Come. Come any time. The shoulder is always open. ...


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Related ISBN
MARC Record
Launched on MUSE
Open Access
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