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14 Triumph of the Jabberwock For TWKT It must be the gimble and the wabe and the borogoves out raving. It must be the nonsense of being misbehaving if death is a life. That must be what it is like. It must be the silver in the scythe— the quick blue winkle in the eye of the baby born still—stillborn beautiful child who will not move unless we move her body and hold her body to us. As we do. We move as if under water or walking on the moon so slow it is like a dance. Her head lolls back on my hand and her head lolls back in my hand. She was born just after she died, this reverse life, our life-likeness who never was long enough to make us understand—who we are or why. Here is the opposite of a lullaby. When you were invisible I was your father and when you are again unseen I will be again. Nothing makes sense. It dips us and leans as we dance your body here in between. ...

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