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                                    Grace Curtis

During sex this morning,
I thought about needing
to pull the milk thistles
from around the pink
petunias, the prickly
stalks awkward beside
the filmy petals.
I wondered if they come
with the mulch each year,
those willful weeds
that thrive on disdain.
I thought about how
I’d get the old
Sears Hardware bucket,
gloves and kneeling pad,
find a spot
among them, and begin
to gently pull, my hand
low on the stem
to get the root and all.
I thought about placing
each weed into the pail,
filling it up to the top,
the summer blooms spared,
and then, how good I’d feel
when it was done.

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