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  • Hannah Hinsch


In summer

my stalk is fragile as

blown glass,

wilting celery.

The wishbone of my ribcage


though windless.

I am the lily on the

edge of wilting.

I splay hopeful petals.

Catch watery light.

Rain doesn’t come

in rivulets, but from the

hummingbird’s wing.


Bees nestle within my

cool folds,

taking from me so that

I might give—

bend to the source.

Hunger for it.

Rain comes,

tasting of ozone

and manna.

I unfold—

winging toward indigo.

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