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The Fisher King

by Barrett Warner

    I never had a green thumb.
    It was orange, yellow, sometimes blue.
    Plants died. Goldfish died.
    Sunny, my canary, died.
    Dogs, cats. They died.
    Rabbits. A goat. A cow.
    Yep. All dead.

    On some mornings
    I walk into the kitchen
    and find dead roaches,
    curled up papery worms,
    spiders caught in their own silk.

    Geese fall out of the sky
    to land at my feet.
    Tractors break apart
    and bad corn mildews the soil.

    Every so often I suspect
    the water might be tainted
    or the air corrupted.

    Every so often I remember
    the way Sara laughed in her sleep,
    even during a bad dream.


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