A rich man’s body is like a premium cotton pillow, white and soft and blank. ‘’Ours’’ is different. My father’s spine was a knotted rope, the kind that women use in villages to pull water from wells; the clavicle curved around his neck in high relief, like a dog’s collar; cuts and nicks and scars, like little whip marks in his flesh, ran down his chest and waist, reaching down below his hip bones into his buttocks. The story of a poor man’s life is written on his body, in a sharp pen.
Whose beard they have sing'd off with brands of fire; And ever, as it blaz'd, they threw on him Great pails of puddled mire to quench the hair: My master preaches patience to him and the while His man with scissors nicks him like a fool.william shakespeare
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