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80 dead metaphOr: preGnant wife Pardon graceless title. We know to you her girth was luminous, even most contrary moods and demands to your ear playful. How you couldn’t stop fondling the moon of her stomach, measuring mule bucking inside, holding seismographic ear against taut skin. Couldn’t stop staring over the frame of your book even when she asked you, seriously, to stop. We know you sat on the floor cradling feet, thought of Jezebel and the Bible, forgave yourself jumbled similes, ideas in fact a joyful mess. This no time to think straight, you thought, proved it repeatedly through nine months. Yes, we know the beauty that has overtaken can’t be adequately spoken, sacrifice makes it better, nothing’s shameful in goofiness or prayer. God would keep her safe, you were certain He/She would, and that writhing, bellowing, red-faced monstrosity—so beyond language— you raise tearfully, humbly to hospital scrubs, that’s your legacy, raison d’être, the whole 81 loaded enchilada of life’s exquisite purpose, sapling to your roots. Something like that. Daddy, daddy, no more tom-foolishness for you. Here’s the digitally edited, high-def DVD— fully scored to your lover’s contractions— documenting the whole bloody miracle, all for us. ...

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