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The Flowering Bough

Whether it speaks
only in anger, or laughs
with many tongues,
sober or lush, its girls
shall travel outward, far from heart, from root,
universal silks
shocked by the world's bruisings,
inflections of flame
dimmed, buds' circuitry

Ants traverse
with their own burdens,
unexpressed traffic
of emotions.
On the wind-shook
edge, that cradle-less
minimum, are buds flocked

both flower and offspring
condensed, last
moments detonations
or endearments.
Then calm.
Then the world. Then the world
as they know it is gone.

Paula Bohince

West Branch

Fall 2012

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