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33 the red pocket knife i remember my father cutting into the white flesh of an apple the red skin spiraling down like new years streamers he did the same with oranges the thick rind winding upward toward the glint of steel you could take the empty peel in your cupped hands and reform it back to its original shape he did the same with pencils trimming the soft wood into perfect points with perfect scalloped edges and one time i remember when our car broke down somewhere between reno and sacramento the night dead black like coal and daddy whittling a wooden plug for the engine we kids sat at bare tables in an empty cafe watching my father shivering in the pale glow of a single electric bulb casting an eerie spell on him and the men helping their voices floating in the dark half-light voices soft like the lighted wood flying around my fathers fingers ...

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