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Pocahontas iv.
The one I love flows neither back nor forth. But count the rivers anyway, unbraid them, make up clever names to confuse the Indians, this the woman thinks – let’s call her Pocahontas. Older now, no longer the girl who saved John Smith, but standing with her back to him in a quiet drawing room in London, married to a man named Rolfe. Both of them will die here far from Jamestown and Chesapeake Bay. The one I love, she thinks, rocks under the wobbly tongue
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