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19 Apple FAmily Clean linen and the apples pierced to pomanders, the window-lights’ reddish halos like the soft darkness inside bodies, behind eyelids— all the white silver and dinner plates clicking like the minute en masse movement of blood cells percolating, the frisson of saline charged with motion. I’ve seen this color before.Another red-letter day, winter, 1982. Between us, a whisper moving on iambs of blood: it’s time it’s time. Beyond the frost-sprigged windows and wreathed doors, there is bone-cracking cold, the body’s sudden unlicked edges. I remember our inconsolable mouths without teeth. I remember being unable to speak, the livid frustration of things known— the apples lined up just so, red against white— of things known but impossible to tell. ...

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