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A W O M A N L O V E S H E R B E AT E R In amongst the branches with nothing better, she operates her churn, her veritable spoona -matic, her chainsaw deluxe on whatever male or minor or charlatan animal. Or mineral. The vegetables, clutch-of-wild-berries hunted and gathered by her digits frozen off or almost, are foraged from the deeply frozen. The branches do part, as in death do us. A white Pyrex bowl, deeply sided, consoles her, shiny on its raised dias, the kind a politician or an undertaker would go for. She climbs in to flee the dark forest’s broken or beaten, to cream, tempo allegro, Dante Alighieri. 66 ...

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