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I am sinking, and there is a watch party of women who call themselves
my kin placing bets on how good I’ll look at the bottom, or if the weight
I’ve put on will push my body up to float. Surely, there are better ways to teach
daughters how to christen their own water. The daughters who do not survive
become the rain. There is not a daughter who survives. In fact, these women have
drowned too. Each a drop in the ocean of our womanly sorrow. Hating themselves like
their mothers do. As I float, I wonder if you can make a man out of water. I
think not, who then would they call on before they get baptized? Plus, I’ve never
met a man capable of folding into himself.

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