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[9] MAnDAtUM Lifting you onto our kitchen counter top, i almost stumbled. you were four, a fish hook caught in your foot. Salt from your tears on my cheek: Mommy will fix it. Footprints the police find in the yard. A trail! Map perhaps! Or a fossil, a sacrifice — tendril of fledgling vines that shone through her skin — beating, translucent. Feigned expertise, but i talked you through it: Look what a beautiful, golden-haired fish someone caught! And you hung on the hook as i curled you free neither one breathing. Beating, translucent. Not the picture I gave. Police want a weight, height, age. So difficult not to measure her in steps, first syllables — beacons like lodestars. not a drop of blood in the sink when we washed up, as if the hook had cauterized the wound — hobbling away, you gave me our sign, thumbs up: i was a big girl. Small for her age, according to the line drawn on our kitchen wall. A penciled life stage — line tentative and conscious, covenant maker poised to retrace her. ...

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