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I hate the sound: like the inside of an iron beehive. I’m too young to know it doesn’t mean welcome. I watch you trace pencil-lines into cedar shakes for driving through the screaming blade: hoping. I walk further into myself: writing words on reams of wood pulp with Orion’s Belt tied around my neck. I miss you at dawn, even the rank of kerosene. Waking in afternoon to a thundering clap of a falling tree. I look out to the backyard: bare with stalagmites 56 of tree stumps you say I owe too much wonder. I hear you feed the bench saw; leaving only the angry din to say what we won’t to one another. MATT VEKAKIS
Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press
Published: Apr 29, 2021
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