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little red maple

The grass stays wet this time of year, slick and bright
like salmon roe, or something else we shouldn’t watch
become what it is. A shutter clicks behind the hinge

of my jaw. You confiscate my tiger’s eye and smoky quartz.
I spit them into your hands. I am ashamed for the titmouse
on our brisk, Austen-esque walk. Rheumy chalcedony buds

where the underwire digs in, and my throat closes. The geese
pinch me with their two rows of teeth, wrap me up in a watercolor
canvas. They could dunk me in the piss cross—see if I care. I want

to dance with that little red maple, the one insecure in the mid-
field. When the wind lifted me from the bog, I left a tarnished silver
chalice for my daughters. I want to dance with that little red maple.






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Originally from Merced, California, AC Harmon lives in the East Bay near Berkeley. She attended St. Mary's College of California for her MFA, completing it in June of 2018. These poems appeared in her thesis, which was surprisingly (or not so surprisingly) pastoral and eco. Her poetry will be featured in a forthcoming issue of Inklette, and has been featured in Bay Area Generations #47.