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You went to live in the foothills
long after the Tongva left, another
transplant like the summer mustard
or tree tobacco that crowded out
monkeyflower, left little room
for laurel sumac. You stayed

as if you were a lucky species
starting an ecosystem rooted
in being rich enough. Before
you came here again I only
knew you as gone, not full like
a California fuscia. This time

until you called a priest I had
forgotten you were Catholic,
forgotten you were a person
and today at your father’s funeral
I feel nothing until I find your face
and your sharp grief shreds me

so that my eyes fill, my lungs
fail. What I learn is that all along
while I thought I was the worst
kind of weed because I’ve known
you for so long and I didn’t
even like you, I’ve loved you.


Laurinda Lind is a former journalist and current adjunct English instructor in northern New York State, incredibly close to Canada. Some poetry acceptances/publications were in Anima, Antithesis, Blue Fifth Review, Chautauqua, Comstock Review, The Cortland Review, Main Street Rag, Off the Coast, Paterson Literary Review, Sonic Boom, and Triggerfish.

© 2017, Laurinda Lind

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