The Round, Spring 2016: Issue XIV

Page 75

TH E R OUND

that winked with monarchs, like flecks of tiger seen through trees, and in that morning light we gathered two arms full of leaves— on which, she claimed, we could, like the black-and-yellow caterpillars, feed. Turning back with our sheaves, my shoulders twinged, as though preparing themselves for an unwrapping of secret things.

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