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246 walking my son on the beach Walking My Son on the Beach J. T. Barbarese (2003) I smell like an engine housing with my arms around his ribs; his sweat tastes like her breast-milk and something else—something his and his alone. The tang of his hair, the sweet cedar bark of his skin, whatever my days have left out of me in him has found a way in and leavens the sweat that sweetens his cheek and leaves it tasting of brine and all the somethings drawn from me as he was becoming mine. ...

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