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My mother wrestles with the stakes
and I with her, with the tomato vines
caught in our decades-old wires.
This rhythm is to us what the blues is to you.
The navel lint warming a cold index feels me.
The town of stairs was built around a square at the bottom of a deep canyon.
Malcolm Gladwell’s apologia for American butchery.
At the forefront of "inclusive" empire-building.
Short fiction by Madeline Cash.