THE SQUIRREL Isabelle Hutchinson I look up, hoping to find God, but only find you, curled against a biting winter wisp and balanced on a tree branch. You are far from divine, but you will do. Tell me. How does a heart convalesce, exactly? I have a pocketful of communal heartbreak, and questions are only fun if you don’t need the answer. Tell me, does happy taste like vanilla or vodka? It’s been so long. My tongue has amnesia. So, let this be my prayer: teach me how to curl against a bitter wind, and teach me how to light a hearth in my chest. Let there be light.
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