Bronwen Tate
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Where we start, the fourth wall raw without shingles. All
posed sitting on toilets in the front yard. The origin isn’t
quiet. Rebuilt hours, just so someone could ask
can I borrow the keys? She shied away from that nearness,
while I watched from the background. Blue tricycle ran a rut,
ran around in between, ran home mad. Dropping
by on the way, like occasions for the kettle. Charmed,
I watched the top half swing open. Chicken coop,
rhododendron shelter, tool shed, wood pile, and
winter, a wind against which we can keep the door shut.




Time it takes to hear a story with your hands
held together. Liking what nestled warm to
germinate, we mapped out leeks and beans. Brittle
as it cooled. Prophets’ beards bled onto the
bathed paper, flowered. Nothing I could do to stop it.
Early to write in yellow crayon until approved. The absent
walls gave decision to my listening, shape to what
outdoors. First books below the window, inclination.
Tell what came next. Diminished, we played
like thorns could kill us. Always within reach of the bells.

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