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Who knows what compelled me to         answer my 
father’s call. His tumor                   resurfacing like the past.  
      Ghosts 	             solidifying. 	In many ways, there was an 
us. Cells       cycling                      into 
sameness of                    our collarbones, soft lung linings, 
                     your face 
in the rearview mirror / every mirror. 
Any longer I evaded your calls,           the doctor said, 
the prognosis could have been        worsened. This 
      uttered in 	fewer, kinder words.               A gift you do not have. 
Instead, you said      nothing      as I cradled the phone.
Shared understanding not spoken but 
shimmering                   between static,                    peeling untold truths and steady
                    omissions taking shape. The way I assumed 
my cells                 were as they readied themselves to invade 
              my body, make it home.