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43 By the Caspian Sea Three days in a row, every afternoon a little girl— cinnamon, plays on the sun-polished sand. Each day she dips her red plastic watering can into the sea, waters a pair of men’s discarded sandals, pats them over and over, as if she has planted the seed of another father in those plastic shoes, as if soon they’ll sprout his feet, (Her parents, blue-eyed and blonde, speak to her in a cacophonous foreign tongue, take turns watching her while tanning on the beach. ) sprout his body’s trunk, the black flower of his head . . . a man with tongue honeyed with the melodies of her land looking on with brown eyes regal as her own. ...

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