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November 30, 2004
BIOPSY Suddenly it is there on its pogo-stick of sound, like some bastard brother out of Beatrix Potter-- Flopsy, Mopsy, and Biopsy. You cannot shove it away. It settles in like the quality of light in the sky. It is not the door but the heavy, brass knocker; not the frost but its first stark breath; it is not the word but the tongue that shapes it, the language that nothing, and everything, waits in, the truth of that shriveled meat of rabbit's foot.
--Deborah Pope From Falling Out of the Sky. Used with permission of Louisiana State University Press
THE CALL The phone slices into the bright rind of the kitchen, where I stand rinsing lettuce, my youngest plunking plates down on the table. In the din, a doctor is saying something, it has clicks and whirrs, a doctor is saying something, rattling off words like a man jangling coins in his pocket, they are currency from a country I have never been to something on the films cluster mass I am tripped by translation something on the films struggling to calculate the exchange rate, my hand on the receiver gone cold from the water it was cupping at the sink five minutes before. Outside, a new nickel of moon is just rolling up from the trees. Across a border, places are being set for a dinner. I imagine the doctor going home to his dinner. I believe I even say thank you. Everything ticks on as it has, pulse, hour, season, the unseemly swell in the new, hard buttons of dogwood, and the reddening evening sky a metastasis of sun.
--Deborah Pope From Falling Out of the Sky. Used with permission of Louisiana State University Press