• Julia Canigiani


In and out, the water dripped onto

bright carrot leaves and

soaked into ripe tomatoes.

We would dig until dirt could

not leave our fingernails.

If I was lucky, I got to take home

a handful of mint for my mother’s tea.

After twelve summers of

growing, caring and leaving,

the same water that brought life

has brought death, one cell at a time.

It did not care if it was

sitting on the flesh of squash

or the flesh of a brain.

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