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bereft, mourning 21 The Idea of Skin Katherine J. Williams At the hospital they ask permission to cut off his ring, then hand me a ragged, split thing I finger in my pocket, until the day I wonder why I spared his skin instead of the smooth cold ring—as though the idea of his body died a slower death than he, and was still wrapped about me. Time and ashes shattered, I glimpse myself against the rain in a dark window, feel my body raw, as if a protective film I never knew I wore is peeled to expose the veins beneath. In the harsh light inside the store, I stroke piles of purple eggplants, envying the taut skin that protects the creamy flesh within. ...

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