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52 When We’re Done Writing about the Self The breastfeeding mother has a cape she puts wrong way over her head so that baby can feed invisibly in the tiny dark. The other woman with the mother is fair, like the mother, like the babies— twins!—the one not feeding content in the other woman’s arms. Sisters, maybe, the women talk as they pass babies across the table. Each bundle gets a turn beneath the cape, emerging whole, like a rabbit from nothing, like a moviegoer from a matinee, blinking away sudden light. The women are in the early years, baby rabbits at the beginning, the man watching from a distant table near the end. Yes. He considers his long, silken ears, touches the alien dryness of his face, & leaves. ...

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