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By Lydia A. Cyrus
Spearmint lingers around the eyes, sides of yellow wire, the deer never saw.
Neighborhood dogs get their tails caught in it but that is common
as they never learn to avoid the line. Which makes them human.
The wooden gate, crooked and gaping as if in awe
of the stalks and vines, grandmother too. The systems of green wiring without flaw
without electricity crawling along like an omen
of fire. Summer sun aflame, the switch must be flipped for the woman
who picks, who pries. Who plucks the claw
of beetles hooked into the leaf. There is rustling, they eat all
kinds—leave holes—the size of dimes. They happen
to disappear just when the hands arrive, like they exist in another world.
Just like the fencing, they sting as if charged by the zap in the wall.
Leaving red blistering, on our hands. Begging for the gate to open
so they can bite like the electricity that goes unfurled.