In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

57 Stem Picking my way through a pasture with a fistful of flowers—phlox, purslane, wood sorrel, and firewheel— I clutch my bouquet like a tow sack. Held lower and their necks would break, the bundle droop and loll like the tongue of a gnu I saw on TV. I think of him, the wildebeest, with his muddy narrows to cross after fording the plain, the lion eyeing his one sweet spot, conduit of the carotids and the windpipe. And now, the crocodile lurks in the shallows. The scraps he leaves will feed the earth, form the muck that plumes the lotus, which is a cousin, I think, to lilies that grow not far south, in the swamps and bayous home to the gator. Whom I think of as I kick off my boots, go in and rinse a slim vase, arrange these blooms so that they seem to erupt from its delicate throat. ...

Share