Weekly feature by: Alex Walsh

Grapes grow on vines and lasagna
isn’t pronounced the way it should be. Sex
is a dirty word; meanwhile money is
beautiful, except it’s also the root
of some nasty tree growing daily
in all our spines. Even microwaves
are holy, in their way.

Girls run away from home
to live in big houses,
but they’re old enough—just—
so that it isn’t running but walking,
dignified, with skirts fashioned
as per the trend and heels
stuck up like horse hooves,
only pinker.

Call me weak for envying
the tide’s ability to ebb, flow,
gracefully participate in the sacred
moon-dance. I wouldn’t want
to be beholden, even to such
a magnificent body,
but routine’s nice.

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