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69 Father and Child If he could, in another house of cleaner light, he’d be her hero and not the intruder who touches her small leg just below the lace pantyline. He wants to love her purely, never laying his hand on her body— just to watch her eyes move like sparrows under the pink, marbled lids. Some hours he can sit beside her, only close enough to catch the hint of caramel she brings home every evening. Asleep, she’s the only living thing reflected in his mirror, except for that pecan where he first played his strange games, his daughter still learning to walk, and where he imagined his hands, filled with God’s intrusive flame, could heal. ...

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