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Damp, stuck,
bone dust—like,
I don’t know. Everytime,
that’s where I lose it. My trains,
my threads break in the most mundane
places, in between the halibut
steaks and dishwashing
liquid. My sister
rode a train

west, just
to see if the fruit
fell wilder or if roads can
bloom. She learned to make
time and tilapia, she waited around
corners and sipped sagebrush
tea. She wrote me
unburdened, like
a promise.


Olivia Olson lives in Rochester, MI. Her poems have appeared in Miller’s Pond
and Bird’s Thumb.

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