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Love Poem

 There is always something to be made of pain.
Your mother knits.
She turns out scarves in every shade of red.
They were for Christmas, and they kept you warm while she married over and over, taking you along.
How could it work, when all those years she stored her widowed heart as though the dead come back.
No wonder you are the way you are, afraid of blood, your women like one brick wall after another.

by Richard Brautigan
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