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by Anna Gault

when he died
it happened
with
a wire

a wire that may
be a rope,
or some gasoline
bridging the gap to

those ants devouring
the peonies
that we sacrificed last summer

and that motorcycle you
hit with your car.
To the nest I crushed

But these were accidents

What’s your excuse?

You hid in your father’s
garage behind some plastic.

Zooming by me
Without asking for

anything
at
all

what’s your excuse?

 

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