Maggid By Marge Piercy The courage to let go of the door, the handle. The courage to shed the familiar walls whose very stains and leaks are comfortable as the little moles of the upper arm; stains that recall a feast, a child’s naughtiness, a loud blistering storm that slapped the roof hard, pouring through. The courage to abandon the graves dug into the hill, the small bones of children and the brittle bones of the old whose marrow hunger had...