the part of my DNAthat married at fifteen—wild jasmine
cutting rhubarbfor my neighbour’s neighbour—wind-blown smokeSandra Simpson
goldfield cemetery—my ancestors in the sectionwith no headstone
summer byway—i roll down the windowand become dog
a blizzard of petals—we all laughin the same languageSandra Simpson
late winter . . .a memory of tulipsslowly surfaces
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