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1 " In the night I come to you and it seems a shame to waste my deepest shudders on a wall of a man. "
― Carolyn Forché , Gathering the Tribes
2 " I take off my shirt, I show you.I shaved the hair out under my arms.I roll up my pants, I scraped off the hair on my legs with a knife, getting white.My hair is the color of chopped maples. My eyes dark as beans cooked in the south. (Coal fields in the moon on torn-up hills)Skin polished as a Ming bowlshowing its blood cracks, its age, I have hundreds of names for the snow, for this, all of them quiet.In the night I come to you and it seems a shame to waste my deepest shudders on a wall of a man.You recognize strangers,think you lived through destruction.You can’t explain this night, my face, your memory.You want to know what I know? Your own hands are lying. "