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I Could Not Ask Other Flowers

Bronwen Tate

Today multiplied. A layered wealth of strata along the sloped face of the work: ankle bone, wind blown grain, suck of honeysuckle, cell of honeycomb. Approach the hedgerow with reverence due a rood loft (consent, oh Lord, to bless). Spade in hand, cleave what knotted. I am of the same stripe as you who cry into the thorned canopy. I follow your gaze to the engraved steeple, bricked with birds’ nests. Talus, alveolus, narrate the landscape of this body. As thoughts pile up, bent, twined, twisted as flowers.

Bronwen Tate

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