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  7 Music Starch splatters my mother’s arms as she glides a shirt through the wringer. Her fingers glisten and the music in the starch darkens her sleeves. I dance under the dripping lines, keeping time in the dark of my closed eyes. I listen and move, listen and move as the clothes call me toward them. My mouth leaves little half-moons where I kiss the hems, my fingers make circles on the waist of a dress. I hug my arms across my chest and sway back and forth to soothe an imaginary baby. Upstairs at night my mother dreams, one hand drawn into a fist. She is inventing my life, the trees I will plant outside the bathroom window, ruffles with burns where the iron was too hot, curtains that test the air as if they were wings being tried for the first time. She frets, “Heartaches,” but feels the ache low in the body. My unborn children turn as she dreams of washtubs, the wringer waiting while she carefully lifts her fingers along the flute of a sleeve. Young_FinalTextRev.indb 7 7/22/19 1:00 PM ...


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MARC Record
Launched on MUSE
Open Access
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