poetry PANDO by Liz N. Clift Here, clonal colony of aspen yellows Utah, standing united, heaviest living organism, sending up new trunks in galleries of sunshine when old occupiers die.
We picnic on Delano's Peak baby blue we can't afford, spread on bread made with Montana wheat. We're here because of ashes and a '95 Chrysler Concorde, because we didn't cross the salt flats because there'd already been too many tears, because chaos before us, lead to me and to you, because we don't believe in maps that crisscross artificial veins across this country as though big swathes of nothing actually exist.
Maybe aspen quake in mourning, because the entire colony knows when one tree dies.
You pack cheese back into cooler, then talk fractals and frost, tracing patterns on my palm. I study lonely firs, green stamps against yellow, surrounded by something like family.
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