LAST SUMMER AT SUMMERLAND by Dana Fang • Cleaver Magazine
LAST SUMMER AT SUMMERLAND by Dana Fang I When she trimmed the holly, when she trellised each lilac, her knuckles were starchy blue, her skin luminescent as if she had been torched with apricot light. At last, for a handful of hours each week, she burnt, and my heart outbid all else for her attention. To be her shelf and shovel, her shear and sled for just a little while; to ache an ache that justified the rest of her calculations— is how her garden grew. II The garden is built like the guts of a palace evergreen and glistening the way any beautiful thing glistens ripe with being beautiful The garden is the inner sanctum of a dream pink like peach flesh lush with sewer cap lilies and a little lake to litter with wishes There is nothing of the World in this world On the … chop! chop! read more!
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