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This is Not a Stunt

by Cath Nichols

Chiaroscuro

The pond made winter’s bed
from blackened sycamore leaves,

now green arms razzle through the waterline.

Marsh marigolds hold out their cups
shout, Look at me! Look at me,

don’t I do yellow exceptionally well?

Fathom

Between the hours of two and four
our muscles slacken, heartbeats slow,
if needs we’ll slip our mortal coil
on this night tide: deep breaths, let go.

Between the hours of two and four
most people pass away if passing
in their sleep is what they’ll do.
Don’t be alarmed, this is the death

we’d all choose, asleep in bed.
The hours of two and three and four
are those when analgesics reign,
we slip with ease through that last door,

but other slippage has its place
between these hours, slip in, drift low.
Watch: this quietest ebb will even out
the balance sheet of loss, will pace

our bodies’ sighs and dreams. Balm pours
into our bones and loosens joints, so
most births take place at night
between the hours of two and four.

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