New England Review - - Joan Larkin -

Don’t talk to me–– he’s sift­ing pa­pers heaped like leaves. He takes one from a creased en­ve­lope and puts it back. How did he drag the spare fridge from the shed when the white hulk died?

Af­ter the dump run, maybe you’ll see my grouse. She comes close to the car and scolds me, she’s try­ing to teach me Grouse.

Food black­ens in the warm fridge. I side­step sal­vaged lum­ber, open the back door––i’m look­ing for the ruffed bird. Beg­ging the air.

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