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The Prospect of Tomi-Terre (1980-1998) Perhaps if I told you she was the one whose hair, after years of expression finally settled into a whispering bob, who begged nurtured pardons, who'd extend her forearm at crosswalks. If I explained hers would have been the brown-eyed boy dancing beneath clothes racks until Gerber jingles roused a forgotten sentiment, perhaps then. Or maybe I should tell how dark alleys can be, how brick echoes. Her name nefarious on his breath. Her name pushing from their questioning eyes. 41 Grab onto her quickly before knives shred our faith like lettuce, or a Black girl's skin. Breath deep. Don't ponder the smallness of trunks, the thickened blood shifting his eyes. Stay with things known: the Grand Canyon smile, the soda-pop with pizza sass, The Dream ripening and peach cobbler and family reunions. Tomi-Terre should be here. Not in that alley, in that trunk and not in the dark and not being searched and not being stabbed and not lost, gone, and not lost. And not gone. 42 ...

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