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STILL PARADISE

Brandon Shane

Sunflowers swept my daughter 

into grasshoppers hidden between 

blades of grass, and springtime wind  

was enough to keep her down. The clouds, 

seagulls or geese, prawn or bluebird, 

green onions dancing over soup. 

It didn’t matter, all of it was a mixing bowl,

juniper branches, rosemary needles, 

elder witchcraft that resulted 

in hot cups of tea. 

Weeds were yet to become ugly, 

hills always overlooked oceans, 

rather than roads that led to work 

or cramps in the calves. 

She was yet to experience 

dogs in wild packs, the old drunk 

who never saved a dime in youth. 

Touching the white peels of a sycamore,

she kisses the bark, laughs at nothing, 

knowing life in memory 

of the brief years she has cradled 

in her palm 

like a bee mediating in the dark. 

The chapels had yet to burn, 

valleys unbothered by dynamite, 

children never taken to an orphanage. 

Sundown had yet to mean anxiety

and she still thought dad acted strange 

when strangers knocked at midnight. 

Rain was a stage for dance. 

It had yet to matter 

what she ate 

or thought

about the world.


Brandon Shane is a poet and horticulturist, born in Yokosuka, Japan. You can see his work in trampset, Chiron Review, the Argyle Literary Magazine, Berlin Literary Review, Acropolis Journal, Grim & Gilded, Ink in Thirds, Dark Winter Lit, Prairie Home Mag, among many others. He graduated from Cal State Long Beach with a degree in English.

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