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Poetry

My father keeps samara seedssafe insidesmall matchboxes.

He holds his handout to me,a seed in his bark-like palm.

Sometimes the red symbolon a white backgroundis a swastika on a Sheboygan garage in 2017

To the age of hands and animals laying open the fields,is as far back as I know my family. From a languagethat is my heritage, from a language I cannot readis the marriage record in our family Heilige Schrift.

quantum bits:the either/and/or

particles of beinginstantly transmitted

across space—attraction’s valences

revealed onlywhen observed

LGBTQIA+encryptions

When we turn the earthin our yard for garden,the last tenant’s burials

emerge as bones.Let us say some wordsfor every creature that breathed

The red edge of morning, like a razor,slits the dark. No more excuses. TodayI will be sharpened. I will be moremyself as I would be. No espaliered

She starved herselfthinking about grace.How difficult it was

to be nothingbut flesh: prickly, contrarious,pretending to get by

Your dead father dogs youlike the white mutt that roams

along the fishing holes and walksthe edge of gravel roads, sometimes

at a trot, most times slow,but with purpose, muscle and sinew

There’s something to be saidabout standing on the center lineof a bustling four-lane road,cars skimming by in front and behind meas I watch my stainless steel thermosbumble along toward the opposite curb

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