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Since then I have pretended ease, loved with the trickeries of need, but not enough to shed my daughterhood or sweeten him as a man.

I drink the five o'clock martinis and poke at this dry page like a rough goat. Fool! I fumble my lost childhood for a mother and lounge in sad stuff with love to catch and catch as catch can.

And Christ still waits. I have tried to exorcise the memory of each event and remain still, a mixed child, heavy with cloths of you. Sweet witch, you are my worried guide.

Such dangerous angels walk through Lent. Their walls creak Anne! Convert! Convert! My desk moves. Its cave murmurs Boo and I am taken and beguiled.

Or wrong. For all the way I've come

I'll have to go again. Instead, I must convert to love as reasonable as Latin, as solid as earthenware:

an equilibrium

I never knew. And Lent will keep its hurt for someone else. Christ knows enough staunch guys have hitched on him in trouble, thinking his sticks were badges to wear.

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