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By Sanjana Ramanathan

there she is         dripping yellowdark over my neighbor’s backyard

so puckish,         that curve of her all waxing and waning and waiting

and waiting       for the witching hour to pass like anesthetic, dip...

...drip...              it’s just a slip of the tongue or something sharper,

for a blade         on a cutting board click-click-kissing the man-root 

in the knee.       the smell of it singing itself into my tea, warm spice

and the earth    sitting there soaking. and the ticker tips past twelve

again                 impatient. the sky is tired, it’s growing its own roots. 

Sanjana Ramanathan is a graduate student in the University of Michigan's Comparative Literature doctorate program. She enjoys playing video games, cracking open a new book, and daydreaming. Her work has been published in Flash Frog, the Augment Review, Provenance Journal, and elsewhere. She can be found on Twitter @sanjubilees.

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