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by d. e. fulford



you quit wearing pants
loaf around your yard
in hole-nipped panties
when nothing makes you
feel less erotic than
being alive in the
summer you must hide
you finally open
almost forty jubilant
tear-paths planting your
only first garden
basil tomatoes scallions
your dead father
would want for spaghetti
& yell at you
through wires black &
kinked when you
speckled yours with
soy sauce, the same way
he did when mama
let you eat ice cream
for breakfast on
saturdays & even though
he hollered a rupture
into memory, mama never
lost a single bout.

d. e. fulford is a writer, editor, and English instructor. She has a Doctor of Education and has masters degrees in both creative writing and education. Her poetry chapbook, southern atheist: oh, honey, is available from Cathexis Northwest Press. Other poems and lyrical essays can be found in The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Longridge Review, Blood Pudding Press, Indolent Books, Dreamers Magazine, Crosswinds Poetry Journal, Sunspot Literary Journal, and many more.

She resides on the front range of the Rocky Mountains with her partner Levi and their chocolate Labrador, The Walrus. In her spare time, she can be found riding her Triumph Street Twin motorbike, attending live music shows, and advocating for conversations about topics that make us squirm. Find her website here.