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The Summer She Was in Hospice

By Maria Hardin

There should be a word for when you’re walking through your parents’ subdivision at dusk and the sky is lavender and peach and sweat is dripping down your neck as you stop take a picture of dead baby bluebird covered in ants and wonder how you’re going to tell your born again christian father that you know he is secretly drinking a fifth of whisky everyday and a gust of wind hits you in the face with the smell of rain.

Maria Hardin can be found at

Art by Maria Hardin.


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