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Lumber Room A winter in Korea decades before my birth prickles through my neckhairs. Foxhole, frozen earth, scrawny teenaged sniper who lives through camouflage: my liver-spotted father, cramming the garage with crates of chipped beef, Spam stacks, grosses of apricots. I saw the old man buried; I heard them fire the shots, the folded flag and casings one more load for the hoard I sort. I’m trampling cartons where wrath’s vinegar is stored and from my mouth come spewing his words, like a disease. The enemy surrounds us. They only look like trees. 77 HadawayRevisedPages 8/15/06 3:09 PM Page 77 ...

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