The American Poetry Review

#BLESSED

In my flowerbed, I hesitateto be delighted by everythingI have worked for in my tinyterritory in the heart-land of America where the memes are goodenough to be bandaids for suffering, the memesare of 50s housewives and where still moredaylilies have openedinto paroxysms of orangeso orange it hurts. Once, the floristgave a short lecture on pain:blooms look alive as theywould were they still alive only with fresh cuts.I started hashtagging ironicallyin my mind. , a yellow decalpressed on our neighbor’s front door.Hose nozzle hissing in my hand, I recallmy high school French. : wounded. What to call that feelingin the mind like a magnetpulling towards metal? The

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