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102 the widows’ handbook Old Woman Dreams Patricia Fargnoli He came to her finally in his torn jeans and soft tan jacket, came from feeding the horses, their sweat still on his palms, came redolent of hay, honey from his hives— Solomon’s Song on his lips. Came with the old scar on his cheek where she left the chaste imprint of a kiss. Younger, impossibly younger, he told her what she wanted to hear. But only in dream, night, the color of his black hair. Around him, her arms wound like his branches, his eyes were a garden she ached to lie down in. They met in a wind-rush, and what she remembers is a craving to follow where he was leading. Also the impression of dissolving against the astonishment of his chest. Her desire seems to have its own life and will not be expelled no matter how often she tries to banish it. Somehow an old woman feels all this. Is it so odd? She’s heard a dream embodies a message from the totem spirit, like the fox who emerges in flame from the forests and goes to hide in the morning hours. ...

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