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Under the blossoming peach trees, hogs fell on the dead in Shiloh. I am breaking up with you and there is a yellow-hatted man throwing apples. Union soldier? Rebel? I can't be held responsible for my actions. I use my fists when I should cry like a woman in love.  Already the peach trees are shaken by a breeze. Already the hogs roll over to sleep like large, uncorseted women in a brothel. We were going to sip old-fashioneds and face the ocean. We were going to slip into the water with all our gold. This war was never meant to be ours.       Remember

I can't cry the tears the ghosts cry all over themselves. You don't write me. In Philadelphia, you remember me in spite of yourself. At the heart of every translation is: How could you go ahead of me when I loved you so? No reconnaissance to return your words to your mouth. Whales, adrift with harpoons of another era.