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Homestead


We borrowed a farm house and grew a glory of armpit hair.
Yard high with yarrow, thigh high with silk, uninvited to the wedding
down the road. What they'd call peculiar, at the punch bowl,
gas station. Queer as unbelonging. Queer as the oak leans
and moss invites itself in. We left the city without a driver's license.
The roof full of crows. A hive, a coop, a barrel of rain.
Slow dancing between appetizers with my hand on your silk.
They ask us politely to leave. Queer as in trespass. As in all
of god's creatures
. Outside, you can hear a goat opening a universe.
My sister's hands on Pluto, turning. There is a black hole thrumming
in a high school, in a drugstore nearby. Nobody gets out
of themselves alive. We look to Venus, count names we can touch.
Poplar, bulrush, homestead. Crescent, willow, dyke. You don't get
to take it with you, the sign reads: you might as well dance now.


Alessandra Naccarato

Room

41.3


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