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17 The InvisibleWoman What is the soul, but the self’s lament Sung quietly to a transparent world? Like a cellophane ripple, a grace note, I rose from the saline waters of my birth. I was born invisible, my bones windows. Windy whiplashes licked my loins clean Of their vernix, disheveled my hair. My translucent face: a watery shudder. Don’t get too close to me, O don’t, Or awe might hollow you out, make you Speechless and silent as my empty mirror. Know me as the barest shimmer on glass. Who was my mother who poured me forth Like champagne distilled from crushing pain? I can barely remember her blue howls, and The spurts of milk sweetening my throat. Where is she now who stroked my cheek, Who buried my placenta in a tree stump’s pulpit? Hers was the single voice of my only praise. Hers the touch that empowered sheer air. Where has she fled, my dear mother ghost? My woe— She is frost to me now forever, A sigh freed from the lucent graveyards. Will anyone ever find me again? ...

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