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    Minor Ghosts 

     

    by Mary Biddinger

     

     

    Someone told me I should cut grass for a living.

    Perhaps all lives would be better if confined

     

    to one singular sweeping motion. Like conducting

    an orchestra that’s silent, or shoveling snow

     

    for the practice, in August, when all that batters

    the hedges is a quaint shower of low-grade

     

    longing. I had no idea that hedgehogs were dolls

    and teacup patterns in countries such as

     

    the one I found myself in. No one told me to go

    elsewhere, but that didn’t mean belonging.

     

    Please don’t start counting the ingredients that

    comprise this particular soup. It’s supposed

     

    to be an improvisation like everything else.

    The cast-iron pot can be its own sort of villager.

     

    If we begin asking the ghosts for permission

    then nobody will be left to lay down the flowers.

     

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