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Beyond
the Porch Steps
the ground is full of
entrances: rivulets, groins, fissures, glands swelling from
under brown leaves crisp as paper,
roots grab hold and
twist like a blind hand finding an eye,
dark mold, in
the crotch of things, on the rotted squirrel skull, on the
fallen hive
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In
the Garden
the singing of the invisible known only
by deliberate dark flicks in the shadows of spiked leaves
sounds like children speaking very rapidly and
suddenly
she has never seen these tiny birds before they
move oddly swinging up and down in the air before landing,
she is new to this place, their song unfamiliar
the
noise of the birds constantly changes, falling and rising
as she enters the space between bushes she thinks perhaps
they watch, and are following her
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Tristessa
lush,
snow white, you hated your round calves and cheeks, your hair
so straight and dark, bangs a severe horizon across your
eyes, the dresses your mother picked out and altered, always
something navy, nunnish, the skirt a little too long, you
were the first and last girl whose hand I held without
panic
we gave each other horse names during recess, I
held strands of your hair behind you as if they were reins, we
clucked to each other when we moved, the clicking tongue
riders use along with their heels, a sound like stuttering
cicadas, when the boys hit you and made you fall down I hit
them back
you were twelve and you used pills, not very
many, the first time
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