Pods and Time

Walnuts, green

balls, pods

smooshed

in the ground,

the smell of

your fathers

backyard, of

that one place

where you

had that scratchy

cat blanket.

I don’t even

like cats.

I don’t even

feel any

different.

I don’t even

My thumb

slices into

the green

skin, the

smell growing

stronger.

And as my

nails dissect

the pod

I feel

ageless,

safe in

my fathers

backyard,

that one

place

with the

scratchy cat

blanket.

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