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blocking my way into my home place: She says I lived here once. This was my place. I want my pictures. I have them, the glass of the frames is broken, if she comes in she will be my bad ikon, throw me away as I throw her away, her gray unmoving accusing stare. Come Akhmatova in the siege of Leningrad: “Can you write about this?” “I can.” James Wright: in Memory Looking back at me from his death, from the feminine side, he asks me to touch him on his throat, on his breastbone, to touch the spots that have the life in them. His voice is closer to me than I am to myself. Unknowable, beginning in joy, his voice is closer to me than I am to myself. Wish-Mother I’ve never felt so close to you, Wish-Mother. Wings, oh my black darling. Almost free. Never felt so close to anyone. Felt, Hide you in the shelter of my wings. 204 door in the mountain All the way home to New York my heart hurt. Am I taking the old glass out of the frame? Are we? I love glass because of water, water because of blood, blood because of your heart, lapping against the birth door to my ear, over and over, my darling, my familiar. And my good. All the way home to New York my heart hurt. (The second time you died this year.) At Cullen’s Island in memory of Eimear Cullen, 1983–1990 Eimear was dead: Every rock was a green womb, lit from inside. The trees were like big soft women whose mossy hooves burned at the touch of the earth: Eimear was dead: Every rock was a green womb, lit from inside. The Wisdom Gravy Goosedown on the warm curve of a pail. Hundreds of young rooks flying into the tree. John: I’d like to get good at it, at being married. Me: Well you can’t do better than that. John: She thinks I can do much better, than talk about wanting! I said to her, I know I haven’t done well the river at wolf 205 ...

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