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back BETH BACHMANN

afterlife

The honeysuckle is traceless
on the face of the deer. The scavenger’s

head is unfeathered. I’ve cleared
a space. Flood it. The only blue offered

is burial. We seldom see things.
How are we to know they are there?

Eat, eat. Let me speak. I’ll whisper

what I want to become.    

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   Contributor’s notes

   afterlife
   bright one
   restriction

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