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Poem: The Annex 

The Annex

My parents’ house has a large, wood attic, full of closets like caves. There’s a Talmud up there that’s useless. When he hugs me—my father—always as if for the last time (ageless arguments as illegible as any body) I cry as I hold on to Anne’s arm. My grandmother’s name, too.  Her skin is downy, soft, and dark and she smells like dust and like the ocean.

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