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  • I used to make fish like this one, each requiring loads of masking tape, wall paper paste, fabric and several layers of toxic clear spray paint to make them shine and swim more convincingly in unfamiliar air. In college I learned that fish are a symbol of fertility (this accident had to do with Virginia Woolf, Between the Acts, dusty stacks in the library basement, a leather bound book). The photos are the same daughter, once in Florida, once in the living room. The mirror is antique, and I’m told rare in its roundness. The reflection makes its way between the curtains, out the window, past the tallest spruce and past boundaries of anything I’d say was mine. Anyway, the image suggests spring, the leaves on the oak brush still folded inside their skinny branches—or however that works. Something about growing. I could still make another fish like this, but it’s almost like I don’t need fertility anymore.
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