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Visitor

While Gilgamesh rests, Siduri sits
on the stoop, back pressed against the door frame,

and waits for signs of the ferryman
on the horizon. Her eyesight has never been sharp—

nothing to threaten an approaching visitor
until he’s close enough to throw stones—

but she’s fast with a deadbolt.
It’s dangerous, her mother writes, to live

all alone like that. People will talk. And how,
Siduri thinks, would I ever hear them?  

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