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6 Dwelling Hunger made her reckless, Made her covet the garden In spite of its thorns. The red fruit, with its buds Like a string of little time bombs, Had forgotten her: pregnant, her fur Almost gray in the semidarkness, And the strangeness of her Own body, fat with urges— Now starving, now sick. And still the fruit would not drop. Then, as if conjured, an owl. The grass writhes as she flees Her bed of tiny mice. There is blood Enough to go around. It is all they will know: her Comings and goings, the brief, Hot milk, her tongue. In the end, She may eat them, too. This is how to love the earth: Like a hand 7 Passing blindly, finger By finger, through the soil And stink of leaves. To crawl toward the smell of warm fur. ...

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