I didn’t know what
thirty poems, on top of
two glasses of vodka
and mango juice,
would do to me
so I ate an extra
prune, to make sure
constipation
wouldn’t skew
the experiment

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L. Lois lives in an urban hermitage where trauma-informed themes flow during walks by the ocean. She is pivoting through her grandmother-era, figuring out why her bevy of adult children don’t have babies, nor time. Her essays have appeared in the Globe and Mail, her recent poetry In Parentheses and Woodland Pattern.