Kimiko Hahn reads
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At this moment is it painful to leave and more painful to stay. Any residue of affection has twisted into an anger keen as a scapel. Brilliant as a blade. Clean as glass. I wish there could be some way for my husband, also, to want to part because everything we might have had has eroded so flat I’m not even sure what we did have. Was it my imagination? The body would like to recall humidity even or especially in February— even as the dogwood too early reddens then freezes the next week but is still not ruined. What of the nestled pupa, more uncompromising than we imagine?