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 The Nook Each dusk, I return to the curve of the cucumber tree where my grandparents first drank tea under the eyes of their matchmaker, matching lip prints on the same cup: the first and last time they met before the wedding, before seven times around the burning wood, before rain-drums and the wedding dye painting their hands. I curl with grass-licked legs under the weave of branches, my knees in wet mud. My spine cracks as I lean to bend my lips to the trunk, feeling the sharpness of bark, nothing like the taste of silver smooth against my tongue. ...

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