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43 SOS In the night room, we read our loot, speak in Braille, pronounce joints and hinge bones – an eloquence of sockets, lobes, fingertips. I articulate ribs. You make a cup of each hand for a scapula. We tongue grooves, declaim into the vaults of armpits, whisper in the keyholes of navels. We finger the stenography of spine, translating tendons. Plosives and vowels flutter around our mute calamity. We are an emergency. Urgent communiqués snap along synapses. All is a tapping of Morse. It’s as though mouths, as though lips, can finish the words begun by the o’s and y’s of our bodies. ...

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