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ii. It Might Repeat on You ‘Garlic!’, she play-screams. And Christ it’s been less than a year since she’d never known it and now she wants pesto to dribble on pizzas, the frontierswoman pleasure of knowing We Made This, as it turns to rot in a back-of-shelf Kilner jar this winter. She’s already ripping the waxy green ears from their stems, feeding them into a bag, playing gleaner. But she has made you the gleaner, hasn’t she? This warmth comes and goes like a nuzzly cat. You bend and detach a buoyant flowerhead, and nibble off budding flowers like they’re redcurrants. A woodpecker’s nutting his way home in salvos, somewhere, and when she asks what it is you mustn’t laugh. She’s irritated now, backpalming a hip, staring across this edible lawn: why aren’t you helping? So you start, swift at each clump, gladly nudged back to the instant as she knows to see it, in this acre of woodpecker echoes, making a job where he has his.

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