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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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