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Farmville

  • Complete Sentence
  • May 24
  • 1 min read

By Hannah Olsson


To sleep, my grandmother, my farmor, tells me to imagine I'm staring at a dark hole, and so I do: one cavernous mass settled just inside the fleshy part of my throat that swallows Swedish most of the time, that knit-wrapped space where I can only speak through cross-stitches, building up conversations like the pixel homestead farmor cultivates on the couch while the lottery creates lucky wallpaper over the bridge of her pursed lips;


"here I am milking the cows"..."here I am pulling the carrots"..."now it is time to fish";


we spend our days in this timeless space that feels very much like the dark holes my farmor visits avidly in her sleep, a place where we are only as fluent with each other as the extent of her gardening tools;


"and now I pick tomatoes"..."and now I go to town"...


and I nod, the way one nods when they want to say so much more.



Hannah Olsson is an MFA candidate at the University of Colorado Boulder, where she also teaches creative writing; her work explores the monstrous beauty in grief, anxiety, pansexual love, and other all-encompassing modes of longing.


Art by Hannah Olsson.

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