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by Christopher McCormick

April storms walk in without taking
their boots off. I close my eyes—
let lightning flash inside me.
Its love is charred wood
and branches lying in the mud.
Yes, it’s been a year of dog breath
hissing through the slats of fences,
of rain beating the scent of lilies
into the air, a scent that could ruin me.
We plant flowers so they’ll weep
our cares into their fruitless beds.
That is our agreement, our love.
In weather like this, I’ll need
more than wings to keep from falling.
At any moment, a wind could come
and drop me on the reaching grasses.
Its love is that it weaves a song
through all my empty spaces;
my love is that I hum along with it.

Photo courtesy of Suad Kamardeen
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