Article taken from Issue #36 || Autumn 2016
Print || Digital
A hunger for green things|
starts in the toes,
lingers at the hedges
on deersoft steps.
She waits for nightcover
to track past clover and henbit,
to garden lettuces and parsley
and strips them down to topsoil.
The hunger for knowings
starts in the fingers,
plucks every thou-shalt-not,
holds each petal on her tongue
like a sacrament:
He loves me.
He loves me not.
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