William C. Blome 


Sweetheart, there’s no mystery: as a boy nearing adolescence, and until my dad knocked and knocked various entities of fantasy out of me, I thought cattails would likely taste like peppermints, and I thought they were capable of supporting monster loads without collapsing or folding over into the brownish water. That’s actually the essence of why I often saw myself as a redwing blackbird, sometimes flapping free and high, but most of the time darting short distances between green stems, and always against the backdrop of a wraparound blue sky. However, when I had my claws curled around a stem and the cone above was easily yielding its candy taste, my strong, intruding, and inclusive thought was on whether or not such a plant could ever support the weight of a naked and conjoined girlfriend. That is, if someone just like my dream girl had chosen to come along with me and to intermittently lean in on or mash up against the bright, straight stalk, could it possibly continue to stand tall in the summer air, or would it (like your fella here when he’s often on his lonesome) crumple and fall into the stew of the surrounding marsh?

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