Linnea W.

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Do Not Tell Me We Have Nothing

[after Madeleine Thien]

Do not tell me we have nothing. We have dew linking lithe
dandelions at our feet, steeped lavender and sugar rising to the
sun like champagne flutes. Suckled honey rolling through ground
away from home’s watchful eyes. We have whispered tongues lifted
from linguistic baggage, treasured remnants of our intertwisted
lifelines continentally knotted. Frantic mapping, path westbound,
flights rushed to lulls with in-betweens where you teach me
how to laugh. We had heads shaken loose against gritted teeth,
tight ropes undone with slips of the tongue. One hand let go in
pursuit of another. Do not say we had nothing. We had plans
charting tall orders, scrawled pencil looping through miles
across the sky. Chasing after your reflection, I fall in projectile
heaps, past a bridge past burning, either forever lost in plain
sight or retraced from dried blood and cartilage, drawn again
when you reach me.
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