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![plogo.jpg](https://static.wixstatic.com/media/a35595_c96e6789149b4ad3b89f87bf0911fdd8~mv2.jpg/v1/fill/w_778,h_120,al_c,q_80,usm_0.66_1.00_0.01,enc_avif,quality_auto/plogo.jpg)
a ceramic stone in a small rose garden
a transducer passes
dirt, thorns, three pandemic months when holding hands
is riskiest
I hear the word ectopic and two ducks fly
close enough to my face to whisper
what are you doing
on my water
six weeks post-methotrexate she asks why
are my breasts still swollen why,
at my lightest, do my feet push the roses down
through dirt
to which I respond: I tried to hug myself
I tried to take a long walk through sun-stained
sand, I pray sometimes
before I sleep
& in both my dreams and nightmares our hands are fixed together
& new winter roses bloom over summer soil
& the ducks land with such grace, I almost miss it
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