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STRANGLER FIR

Emily Griskavich

She kept the tree in the beige-lace living room,
where it often came up in conversation
with guests who feigned interest
over coffee and muffins.
“I had to put the pole in there.
They can’t grow without something to strangle.”

On afternoons without visitors,
I admired the lacy leaves
dappled green and white.
They made it pretty, from across the room,
where you couldn’t see the bulging muscles
of off-white wood wrapped
around the dark brown stake.

After hearing my mother say “strangle”
one time too many,
I decided to set the stake free.
I climbed the huge wicker pot
that held the roots.
I planted my feet, grabbed the tree,
and yanked
and pulled
and strained
and rocked
from side
to side
to side...

Silently, she picked me up,
leaving the overturned tree where it was.
My dirty bloody hands
grabbed her dress
as she wrapped me in her arms.

Then I saw her hand
wrapped around her favorite wooden spoon...



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