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by Matthew Daddona

  • The grass takes cues from the wind
  • and sprints,
  • streaking like hair (through itself)
  • as a floundering child back to its mother
  • who is, say,
  • the sun looming over,
  • arms crossed
  • grinding her gold teeth.
  • I am watching them,
  • waiting for a miracle today,
  • as I waited yesterday,
  • as I’ll wait tomorrow.
  • My shoes are untied waiting for the knot.
  • The grass,
  • expecting the worms,
  • extends its fingers (upward)
  • where the wind takes them
  • wet and forsaken, back to the light
  • and heat,
  • blade by blade
  • to a chair where she sits and waits,
  • reading a home-cooking manual,
  • unaware they have grown up.

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