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She shuts up her heart when she cooks. Under the armor of hunger she can ignore distractions: his voice at the door; no voice at the door; the neighborhood talk when she brushed her hand on her lips and brought his kisses to her mouth again. The thought
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of her own company most days, most nights. How this is some kind of hell to live like her mother, her mother’s mother in catalogues of things feared—just the suggestion of having once lived. How she mothers the blades of bussed kitchen knives. |