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The Iowa Review - - NEWS -

In the dark, my el­bows will never fit into my ribs again. I will not hang a black­out cur­tain over the kitchen. Each time sex is made, a vase ex­actly op­po­site me shakes. I blush— a man with rough hands rubs my in­ner face. In the prov­i­dence of petty shames, sleep is mo­men­tary and mon­u­men­tal. It’s easy to see my­self ev­ery­where.

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