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Poetry  – 

The day after my first beets

Lisa Low

I marvel at my beet-stained pee. Called to the toilet,
you humor me, wowing along as I linger over the bowl.

I didn’t know, hadn’t eaten one until you—
you’d loved them since summers as a kid snapping beans

on your family’s farm, bored. The purple not-blood
shade of red. The color I spent childhood hoping once. . . .


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