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T H R E E P L U C K E D L A D I E S Three plucked ladies chemoglutted , cocktail-wavy, radiate into my kitchen. Oh, my. Food is beside itself, dust balls. You’ve seen curtains hang? Even the little threads fighting the chair retract when they sit. But words waft, heads hum, bulbs on. An offering of me, as generous as that, there is no other. I want to pray but it’s too late, they’ve harked in semaphores, in series, in sighs a whole meal of Good Gracious. I hug them well, their thin selves. I tuck each into her trauma. I turn my head. 82 ...

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