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  • Dionne Blaha

It's Inevitable

It’s inevitable—

one day pestilence

will fly away from you

like grasshoppers,

the smell of sewers

depart from you,

all the stuff that causes wars.

Your house will be moved

like an earthquake moves a tree

a foot south.

Once you start walking again,

slow as a grasshopper crawls,

your skin will transluce

your insides out.

Your pitcher might be filled

but you must

pour the water,

and whether you pour it

with sand in your eyes

or ice in your armpits

or carrots sprouting

from every fold of you—

it’s you who interprets

the writing

on the packets of seeds.

Let me hold your hand

as we look upon the tree,

which, you see,

is two feet south today.

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