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oo The Crutch
Jennifer
Van Buren & Alex Nodopaka Neither
confessing nor denying suspicions
of misplaced virility, my
interpretations are self-inflicted. When
the mind is absent and
an old crutch won't do the job, one
looks in Manzanita bush for
the proper angled support, but
avoids summer poison
oak. ~a.n. ~ I
have never tasted the drupe of
this evergreen you lean upon, nor
have I felt the itch of poison. Mother
and I pull vines with
gentle tugs for root extraction without
glove or long sleeve. We
laugh at the ivy’s vain attempt at
self protection. We
are immune. It
runs in the blood of the Schultzes along
with a dimpled chin and
knobby knees. In
the oil can with broken crutches, newsprint and
dry milk boxes, we burn the vines with five leaves. On
the puffs of smoke, we read imaginary signals sent
to lovers lost, late, or never arrived. They
all say the same thing. Your interpretations are self- inflicted. ~j.vb.
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