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40 the minnesota review Elizabeth McLagan Folding Poem How can a single word - outrage, for instance - recall a drive through a small town in a stucco and neon afternoon smelling of onions? Was I leaving? was I driving east or west? and why has this scene flashed back from the universe of what-might-be where I have stepped sideways into a life where a man in a pickup truck has my father's hands, scarred by a drill press, no wedding ring. In acres of flat fields. A silence like growing. Bulbs underground, adding their milky layers, translucent skins of forgetting. A man I once loved told me the only trouble with me was me. I am half in the life where he was right, half in the life where I cannot remember him. In every scene there are starlings, which in this country are despised and lovely in their imitations of singing. ...


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