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A woman, a midwife or a companion, says, do I want her to kill it? Our mother wants to take herself away from us. My kisses. She loves another country better than this. Another class of people. The class of the dead. Listen listen listen: (whisper this:) her silk spirit is leaving the crown of her head. The Night of My Mother’s Death The night of my mother’s death: what I saw: They are winding a bandage all around her head. I say, Leave holes for her eyes and her mouth. Then I look down, and I see, my own wrist is only a spine of bones. Then how will I listen any more? I ask you Davoren Hanna, and you say: “Ordinary communication is too slow to succinctly indicate my meaning.” I ask you Emily Dickinson, water-spider rowing over danger and death: four white lines, four white lines: nothing over nothing. the river at wolf 207 ...

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