Rock. Paper. Scissors.

Photo by Martin Adams on Unsplash
Spring comes with no particular surprise. Glacier 
rocks begin to surface in fallow fields. The shift of 
warmer weather lets them rise up, however briefly— 
another cairn built by the side of the road is a land- 
mark made to measure memory. The map of this 
town is sun-bleached and creased on roads that go 
nowhere. We can get lost, tracing the distance 
between here and there. Yesterday, I found a pair 
of safety scissors in the kitchen garden’s mud. 
They still make a clean cut. The map splits in half. 
The cemetery divides into shares. No one has left.
  • M.J. Iuppa’s fourth poetry collection is This Thirst (Kelsay Books, 2017). For the past 31 years, she has lived on a small farm near the shores of Lake Ontario.

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