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ISSN: 1941-4137 |
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Volume Three Issue One |
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Weed Field — for mother I remember one day in dust and the scream of cicada voices, I traipsed across the kitchen, tennis shoes full of dirt and bits of weed, clambered into your lap and you held me; voices too dry for words. Later, back in the field, I searched its boundaries for something new and growing. I placed a bunch of wildflowers in the big coffee can on the kitchen table, filled it deep with water, turned to go out and play. |
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