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"From one heap to another" by Maura Hehir

From one heap to another

after Brian Eno

In the spring, I scatter normal instruments

in secret locations.

The road home is formless, crowded; I weave

carefully through an out-of-sync marching band, whose feet


get stuck in the gooey, gluey mud. Not mine;

the trick is to never lower your soles down. Never touch and

you won’t adhere. Time for a drink, is it?

To be unafraid of the middle—now that’s cause for celebration,

the director says. Handing me an ice-cold

glass of something sweet. But I let it fall

on the technicolor turf and sprint away. My piece is off the board

—would anybody want it? The trumpet blurts wobbly

and faint behind the horizon line now. Fainter and gone. Yes,

I’ve learned to say no, but no, not yes. No more

path just one big directionless stretch under

the sun. At the center of a very small object.

Maura Hehir is a writer and teacher from New Jersey. She is a third-year MFA candidate in fiction at New Mexico State University and the Prose Editor of Puerto del Sol


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