when I am not able to say anything at all,
I bury my face in these feathers and think
about how we used to pick ground pine.
our fingers were so red in the cold, sweaters
down past our knobby knees. there was a wagon,
a cooler full of apples and ice water.
grandpa owned 100 acres. I had the same gap
in my teeth as I have now. I used to be scared
of the creek and the trees that fell across it.
sometimes we found arrowheads in the mud.
I’d clean them off with the hem of my sleeves
and slip them into my pockets.
they would tumble out in the washing machine,
and clatter around in the metal tub.
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