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Tonight, I Wish I Were a Dirt Dauber

by Elijah Burrell

driven from my mud-chunk home
by pebbles slung from the wild
hands of human boys.

The larders stocked, I’ll feed
forever on orb weavers
and forget words like prognosis

and treatment. I’ll be the sting,
not the stung, and Death
will hear my hum in his own worn-out ears.

Elijah Burrell is the author of the poetry collection The Skin of the River (Aldrich Press, 2014). His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Birmingham Poetry Review, Iron Horse Literary Review, Measure, Sugar House Review, and elsewhere. He resides in Jefferson City, Missouri, with his wife and two daughters, and teaches creative writing and literature at Lincoln University. (12/2015)

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