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A shortcut to undo; and so the hateful words we say,

hateful because we have not loved someone 

so much before – can be reversed, undone, erased.

A dream come true: No evidence. No blowgun

residue. No shadowy pin-print in the chest, where 

the pointed tip pierced through. No plaintive call 

to cauterize the wound. No sky gods cheering 

for a second act. Nature reversed: No crawling 

back, no silken trail, no bouquets of fattened leaves 

in new host trees with larval tents; branches where we will 

leave our scent and later, feed. Limbs in silk sleeves

like spring in a dying season, as if to ornament the kill.  

As if, behind the screen, like lotuses, merciless words

did not fix their roots in swampy waters, undisturbed.


Copyright © 2021 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved.
Published in The Florida Review

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