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my mother is sick. when we talk on the phone her voice is huge, contains blue light and a dark sea. when i call my father, he doesn’t know who i am–drifts–calls me heinrich, then by my brother’s name, then ari. i spend all day in these mystifying conversations. i am far away, saturated in strangeness and bitter space. how are we not all tumbled together in their big bed, which is really two beds pushed together, one made by my father and crooked and covered in glue? how not hot scattered w toast crumbs and toys, pitching, ever turning towards outside’s soft squashed plums, bull ants and red earth. tearing into everything new and known?

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