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38

Petit

Iwasasilentandsullenchild, deepasawell, magma boilingatitsbase. Gettingmetotalkwaslikedrawing waterandbringingupalavabomb.

Icallherandshe rises, trailinga rainof rootsandstalactites, likethestormcloudattheendof childhood’ssummer.

Shesitswithmeatthetable, ahulkof electricair; ariver’s catch, raisedandsuspended.

Awholefarmhousehoversinthe gloom. Inherthunderhead thegentlecowsaretrapped, theirbellsringing.

SevenyearsIstayedsilent.Iwouldnottalktoherstorm-face oreclipse-hair, eventhatonenightshesoftened, andIsaw thelunararcsonherbrow.

Ilaythetable. Thewaxedclothisprintedwithsunflowers andlavender, poppiesandcorn. Thecicadas chanta grace. It issummerinourplates.

Thewineisfromourvineyard–aprehistoricvintage. The fruitisfromourtrees. Iweededthem. Iprunedthem. The donkeycarriedwatertothem.

MyplatespinsandIstarteatingCatherinewheels. Idrink thewineof newbornstars; sipcognacoldasCentaurus.

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