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  Feb 21 Joel M Frye
Deb Jones
His skin suddenly pale

His eyes watering from anger

Looking into the distant

Memories only he could see.

Hands folding into tight fists

By all these tells, he wore his guilt and anxiety as clearly as if he composed his confession on a blackboard with a stick of chalk.

Confronted with his infidelity

But she would pay the price

Tomorrow she wouldn’t be able to leave the house

For the next week she would spend a lot of time lying down

She forgot she wasn’t supposed to ask him questions

How could she have forgot?

Never demand the truth.

Never ask for the truth

His guilt is her pain

It’s a beautiful, terrible world, isn’t
  Feb 21 Joel M Frye
Dr Peter Lim
Before I can act courageously

I must first learn to live reverently
  Feb 21 Joel M Frye
a quick shrug, ***** my shoulders - anger rolls to floor.
I wade through it - bear love and hope a little higher over its tides.
  Feb 21 Joel M Frye
Our garden was spirals of green. Squeeze-through bean tunnels rigged with bee stings, skinny mud paths that grazed knees and bloodied hand-heels when it rained.

I chased hairstreaks and brimstones - ragged commas were caught breaths in bramble. I was too rough. Ants and wasps would get them, or they’d starve, because I’d scraped away balance with their fine-powder scales.

The field was neat rows of gold. Wide paths, made-good with stone, were sipped dry by birch and tall oak. There John Brown slept mythical: In his caravan with door flung wide open, rifle slung across thighs, and an old hat saving his face from the sun.  

Peacocks and emperors flickered - fritillary swooned to a stop on damp skin. I sprawled in the dirt and looked at the sky. I listened... to the click-click of chopped veg, kids playing, men coming home. Stood as a pan groaned over gas-hob - then I ran.

Scrambled the bank, grabbed hold of chain-link, crashed into the garden. I knelt by the pen, let dogs lick my hands. Gave armfuls of long grass to rabbits. I danced around chickens, returned beeps to quails. Avoided wry-smiling ferrets.

I made it back before Mum needed to yell, swirled my limbs clean from the barrel - Excited because, in a couple of weeks it’d be teeming with coppery fish, and I’d give them ant-eggs and worms.

I shoved open the door, brushed past dead things. That’s what we did: Fed them until it was time.
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