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  • Writer's pictureHannah Hinsch

Even So

I wrap around him—

mud to water, breath

to matter woven in whispers beneath

dark leaves where I watched him sleep

lambent with lesser light

and traced the bone from whence

I came to number the breaths



even after

my hand lifted to linger at the branch

bent low with fullness,

a belly stretched with fruit

known only in dark—even still

I am the word he made

before his own, the choice

old as plow to earth torn

true as his name—

I am his sweat-riven brow

I am his garden unfallen

I am his tree.

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