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59 The Ex-Husband I’m pure shrapnel, stored-up venom, a shred of a man, a sliver, a desperate fighter cut on the lid, blindly pummeling my opponent before going down. Call it a compulsion, a fetish, an obsession, my face in the window peering in, the face of a five-year-old begging you to stare into that wallet full of need; at the same time I feel the full force of me like a shove, a shove inside me, a sinkhole or a ditch. Back there, the shutters have been nailed down for the thunderstorm, I overturn a wicker chair and a table looking for shelter until the lightning strikes, until I see my face, as the storm is sparking, alternating current: all self, no self, all self. ...

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