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By Karen Wolf


A thin ribbon of confidence pushes

away a shadow cast


by the wood-slatted barn; Sweet

heart, your mama…died, didn’t

make it, passed away, joined your

brother, wished

you hadn’t closed her

out years ago, shuffles


the script again, before he steps into grungy overalls

to concentrate on winter


chores though oil and rags

on the combine a pin

prick of his mind.


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