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there’s a hunter in my garden
he is here for the hydrangeas, the hyacinths
to braid into his hair and his gun

there’s a hunter in my garden,
he will not shoot at me but he will not
give me his gun, either.
he cradles it and smiles
like i might have known him once.

there’s a hunter in my garden,
he is staying here until he can
figure out how to get home.
he is crying again,
making noises like he is drowning.

there’s a hunter in my garden,
he picks up the slugs with the tips of two fingers
gentle as a cross-stitch—
the caterpillars all recoil,
begging him not to hurt them.

there’s a hunter in my garden
i’m afraid he will
break my teeth

I do not dare
ask him to leave.

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