“I am so glad we live here together with our yam”
he said, putting hope in her hailstone heart.
They fluttered tiny wings, licked icicles,
fell sick, convalesced.
Through the betrayal of November, the knife-wound of January
they unfurled wings so small and gray.
Nearly invisible.
Beneath dull skin the flesh is bright.
In spring what else will come loose, break free,
take flight?
Love is a sweet potato. Love is a moth.
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