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Sticky
for Robert Wrigley
by Lana Hechtman Ayers
She wants her eyes
to realize the names
of all the fallen trees–
not their names only
but their brithdates
& weights. She strives
to understand all
the planned and
unplanned waning
of the light. She courts
the moon, bright cohort
and conspirator
courts the sea, the sea
that bellies up news
of a coming world
she will not live
to see. She weeps.
She keeps her regard
open & unhard, reaches
for the bleached sweetpea-
blooms, for round browning
petals of rugosa elegans.
Her hands come away
stained and sticky
as if in communion
with straining bees
so that what comes
of her quick, her one
consumable, incon-
solable life is honey.
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