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8 the minnesota review Jeff Worley Starting Point The first memory isn't the stagger from father to mother like the photographs say. I was five, in the Scotts' backyard watching two chickens tied to a clothesline. He bound their feet with wire pulled the fleshy crests earthward and struck twice with the cleaver. This wasn't what moved me: I was trying the center of the seesaw, gliding on wood currents, searching my body for balance, my hands stretched into wind. I hung like vtoodsmoke over the speckled yard, floated above the neighborhood of fathers calling until night filled my hands with its dark leaden moon. ...


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