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WHAT WE LOOK AT LAST I Linda Pastan What if it's true that what we look at last in life remains engraved forever on our dosed lids, a miniature oval to fit the eye like one of those tiny portraits framed in gold leaf my grandmother kept on her mantel? Did my father staring at the hospital ceiling as he died have only that map of cracked plaster to follow forever, and where can such acddental signposts lead? When I travel by air I refuse all trays and magazines. I gaze at acres of furrowed cloud— our guess of heaven. Or far below I see a speck of lighted window, someone hidden behind it with flowers perhaps and bread and candles for my unshriven feet. T h e M is s o u r i R eview • 19 ...


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