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26 Aiolos and the Bag of Winds And I endured it and waited, and hiding my face I lay down —x. 53 When language fails, there is sound, wind chimes and the rustling of potted ferns growing near the screen door. On this porch after school, I cared for a child found in an empty factory, her new father in the garden among sugar snap peas rubbing together, glimmering as though moving in rain. Upstairs, the doll-sized nightgowns were folded into squares like canvas sails pressed closed. I’d try to calm her. She’d open her eyes, just aware of my voice, the way my sister turns her head to the car window, to Main Street’s orange words on signs, the heavy trees spreading night around us. She slides off her thumb ring, rubbing it, balancing the silver circle on one jean kneecap, the comb of her hand behind an ear. My voice comes from another place. The parking lot is dim, ordered, and quiet. ...

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