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Autobiography of the Prairie

Deborah Ager

The Alachua said, the gods brought us
water. Water came from earth until
water became a lake. Water left
and the lake became a prairie.
I was dust, scoops of pollen, a young couple
making love. I was firm ground under feet,
carriages, the shadows of airplanes.
I would like to have seen more of the world.
I could have been predictable and kind.
I could have been yours. Instead, I waited.
I became the water sucked back and spit up again.
I covered parking lots, filled alligator dens, and receded.
I would be the last leaf left on the branch, kicking
my way to the ground, calling out: you have everything.

Deborah Ager

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