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January 2019, vol 14 no 4

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Rebecca Drouilhet

Words Without Songs

All the yards were green as emeralds. The Chryslers in the driveways always smelled new. Yet, behind it all was the scent of death, of things breaking down and falling apart. Not where we could see it happening, but not far away.

At the top of the road was an empty lot. In summer, it filled with Queen Anne's lace and Monarch butterflies. I used to capture jars of the Monarchs and etherize them before pinning each one to my corkboard with straight pins. One day as I was pinning a Monarch to the corkboard, it woke up.

the underclass . . .
I learn another word
for pain


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