Steph

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For a week and a half, for six hours a day, I am a body in a chair listening and talking with other bodies in chairs. I don’t cry. Not for myself. At least, not here. But I do cry for others whose stories undo my sense of capital J Justice. In all their stories there is a common thread: someone didn’t listen. Sometimes it is a brother, or a wife, sometimes it is a mother. • On my morning walks to the hospital I am shellacked in beauty. Red leaves falter like prayer flags on the branch. Yellow leaves grin their good yellow teeth. When I start to think of my family, my father stewing somewhere ...more
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Odes to Lithium
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