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62 In the Morning It’s Evil on the Bedside Table I kept that spider plant you gave me. The one you potted yourself in a washed-out yogurt container. The one you said would grow with our kinship. I don’t know what became of the aloe vera you handed me from the same paper bag. It must have been lost in a move, or maybe my mother has it. The spider plant is still growing. Often, I let it go brown and wicked, but it comes back striped and bold whenever I let it have water —spreading its greasy leaves over the edges of the table. Whatever it is strong on, it isn’t love. I feel it planting eggs in my heart, while its tiny, eye-jammed head aims downward, feeding off the puss in my stomach. Its abdomen plugs my esophagus. Its cable legs are extended; their fine black hairs are gripped, along each bone of my ribs. ...

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