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71 Edward Nobles A Violent Inheritance A man and his wife are stomping and throwing a favorite metal pig bank and some crystalware her mother gave them on top of my head. They stomp on an ear through the floor of the master bedroom. They are trying to decide which of the two is master, and if the wife should be allowed to go to the movies, a Fellini film the husband hates, with another man who is just a friend, and whether or not they are still in love. I am their son, the tiny voice below them, a baby toad beneath a forest cracked leaf, beneath a black shoe, the sky. I am the one who watches the shadowed happenings tearing through the fog and dark pine needles in my room, the hurting feelings all crisp and clear. I am the center of the heart and my parents are the actions I can't understand inside me. My wife and I pace about, breaking things we love. We are the fetus of all that went before. And we plan for our child, viciously arguing over the nature of its birth. ...


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