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IGNORING DEATH SAMANTHA HARDEN I am not Emily Dickinson, sharing a table with a death— that stopped for her —wicking away sauce from her plate with a breadstick Nor am I Sylvia Plath, who fought her death weekly, in a dazed game of croquet, quipping, while mallets clacked against pink marble. I am a fatted trash can raccoon, outside my death’s house, and while he, Plath, and Dickinson all sit inside, playing cribbage— waiting for me, I am slinking under lawn furniture licking stickied wrappers sneaking glances back into the shadows.

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Red Cedar Review Vol. 54  

Red Cedar Review Vol. 54