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post script

 And then we mounted a hillside filled with blue daffodils.


“These weren’t here before.” Bluebells — fairies ring them


when they want to hold a gathering. The mountains are


hills where we’re going and gold robes their shoulders


like the city itself is noble. Waiting in the parking lot


Jewel came on the radio … these hands are small


I know… I leaned my head on Sarah’s shoulder.


The woman driving had cropped hair


and bare arms: and she said


we would make it


by nightfall.


Gala Thomas is a poet recovering from a head injury in Olympia, Washington. She got the name “Gala” by accident, when a Benedictine nun switched the i for an l. She is keeping the new name as a reminder that life is a pageant of glorious and grotesque proportions.


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