Mar/Apr 2021 • Vol. XLIII No. 2 Nature’s Nature |

Jeremy

When your wife died from pneumonia last winter, I thought of the sycamore we climbed in your backyard. The tree’s mottled crust gripped our toes, and from the lowest branch, we flung our bodies to the dirt, wondering at the scuffed archipelagos on our knees. Dewberries bellied purple along the chain-link fence. We plucked a few, spines and bristles ribboning our catch, and brought handsful to your mother who stood at the kitchen window, a milk jug open — a sour cold. She had ten years left with your father. In the finger-grass, we saw sparrows bobbing like tacs, sweet brown churrs that lobbed and pecked a lizard, splitting its gut to reveal something like a fresh red tongue. I remember our Saturdays thick with butterweed, roadside ditches hovering yellow, and the white clover heedless amid green. The bees we’d pinch by the wings, delicately, if we could, admiring the scramble of thin legs. We’d let go, and they’d still flit to the next batch of pollen. And do you re

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Burnside Soleil grew up in a houseboat on the bayou but these days is a pilgrim in New Orleans. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in [PANK], Southampton Review, Harvard Advocate, and elsewhere.

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Nel (Tenebrae)

By Burnside Soleil

When your wife died from pneumonia last winter, I thought of the sycamore we climbed in your backyard. The tree’s mottled crust gripped our toes, and from the lowest branch, […]

Imani

By Burnside Soleil

When your wife died from pneumonia last winter, I thought of the sycamore we climbed in your backyard. The tree’s mottled crust gripped our toes, and from the lowest branch, […]

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