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  • Gary Hunter

Wintergreen - May 16, 2021

In her room she would stroll to the night table

a bent twig drifting through a minted forest

the old bark of her skin lotioned to smell like

spring in winter scenting a green-faded dress

and wrinkled handkerchief in constant clutch

she’d open the drawer and dozens of round

candies would roll forward and bang on the

front of it when she stopped

My great grandmother Ganny from the horse days

the old slow ways would hold one like a pearl

in two fingers and slip a squeeze to its edge

and pop it through the plastic into my hand

then I into my mouth

She’s a ghost now a bent one drifting through

a minted forest whenever my tongue captures one

of those ice-blue and white candies



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