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28 • THE MuSiC: AN ExPLANATiON TO MiSS MArTHA Birds are the first thing like the morning, a smiling rising call—that’s my horn section. The way pop bottles clink, even break, & jump ropes slap concrete when the pretty girls double-dutch. That’s my rhythm. There’s the grate of the screen door— open, close—how water in your kettle rustles over fire, that sound just shy of a whistle— my guitars, violins. I wrote it for you, Grandma, a Sunday song to swing the choir’s robes, make the church say “Amen” he says. All I hear is “Chopsticks,” “Three Blind Mice,” but the way he looks at me, 29 • his eyes on my eyes, fixed, never falling, the way the future unfurls, his fingers still planted on the keys, I can’t help but believe. ...

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