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37 K ate G ale The Doorway of Secrets Something follows me, a dog or my shadow. It haunts me on quiet days in the thick of woods like a bear or a mountain lion stalking me. It leans toward me, fuzzes the edges of thoughts. It stays there, just out of reach, a maddening itch my arms are too stiff to touch. I stare in the mirror hoping to see a trace of it between my eyes or written on my forehead. But my forehead is a shelf of closed books. I close my eyes for a moment. For a moment I am in the doorway of secrets; but I do not knock. I fold my arms across my chest and turn away because in there, I think, is a bloated, frenzied squaw, kneeling, bending, wheedling, covering old sores. ...

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