Date: July 2022

after Marianne Chan   I feel // my body heavy. // This is how I worry: / my body, my body   I try to think of the flourish of wildflowers. I know that surely satin trillium petals don’t feel foreign blooming atop whorls of leaves. But my seedlings, penetrating surface soil of skin and […]

Earl grey skies swaddle the rooftops like hand-knit mittens.  A reluctant rain begins to fall, pattering on sidewalks  and bejeweling the crimson leaves of the maple trees in the city park.  I walk slowly through the purple twilight, breathing deeply    the smells of damp earth and wet leaves.

At nightfall, we followed the path past the crabapple where blackberries thread their thorns into thicket walls that prick    our bare feet and snatch at our wrists  as we pluck the sweet sun-warm fruit each August. The last few fireflies blinked   from the bushes that border the edge of aspens


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