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Basil

Basil

January Gill O'Neil

On those afternoons 
when I feel most fraught, 
broke as a joke, 
I breathe with the trees. 

Yes, my children’s laughter. 
Yes, my dog’s wagging tail. 
Yes, when my lover puts his lips on me 
wherever he wants. 

There are places where sweet tea 
with lemon is served year-round. 
Think of it! Fresh brewed. 
Frosted glass. 

Because some days there is no mercy, 
I’m counting my remaining supply 
of moments in the troubled light. 
When I tear basil from the garden 

I nurtured all summer, 
even as it begins to bolt, 
the smell lingers on my fingers  
long after I crush it. 

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