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ISSUE:  Winter 2021

What’s the thin break 
inescapable, a sudden thud 
on the porch, a phone 
vibrating with panic on the nightstand? 
Bury the broken thinking
in the backyard with the herbs. One
last time, I attempt to snuff out 
the fig buttercup, the lesser celandine, 
invasive and spreading down 
the drainage ditch I call a creek 
for a minor pleasure. I can 
do nothing. I take the soil in 
my clean fingers and to say 
I weep is untrue, weep is too 
musical a word. I heave
into the soil. You cannot die. 
I just came to this life 
again, alive in my silent way. 
Last night I dreamt I could 
only save one person by saying
their name and the exact 
time and date. I chose you. 
I am trying to kill the fig buttercup 
the way I’m supposed to according 
to the government website, 
but right now there’s a bee on it.
Yellow on yellow, two things 
radiating life. I need them both
to go on living.


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