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S U S A N L U D V I G S O N Trainer’s Temper Bars Him from His Beloved Elephants Headline, The Charlotte Observer All day when one is giving birth you sweat, roll on the ground, clenching your knees to your belly. At night you lie beside her groaning, as she bellows pain, humiliation, to the stars. You understand the language. When you sleep on the ground you feel it shudder with the memory of a herd turning the grassy plain to dust. When you bring straw you want to spin it gold, to make vast brocade blankets and a shimmering jacket for yourself. But when the youngest refuses to eat, you smash the bottle on his soft head, claiming an accident. Sometimes when they cry all night for nothing, you take a fat stick and let them know whose word is law. They never blame you, but tremble in the corners while you croon. 56 ❚ The 1970s Your father wept each time he bruised you. Once you went to school with a broken arm and when you got home he twisted it, so you’d remember. When he died you stayed at the grave five days in the rain, still hearing his words: We’re all beasts, son. Trust no one. Do not marry. Do not have children. Nobody understands the nature of love. The 1970s ❚ 57 ...

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