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The Farm

Jeremy smiles into the folds of his skin. Late October. He likes this time of year for its calm: “The grass here is just covering crop right now. The whole farm feels sort of tucked away.” We are cold, sweat-flecked and shivery. 

Today, it’s garlic. With the heels of our hands, we mash down on the bulbs and split cloves from roots. Then, we stake out little holes in the soil, ensconcing a clove every six inches. Occasionally, I de-glove one and slip it in my mouth. More than occasionally, I snack on Komachi turnips. Technically we get three each today. (But I’m compensating for the total fools who don’t even try them. Like the fools who never wanted their daily Babybels: I used to do the rounds of the canteen, collecting desiderata. So more like seven.) I feed the chickens the roots of seven turnips before going back to the garlic columns. A greybeard once told me Farmers who wait until they finish their Beverly Gage papers never plant. He added, If they watch every cloud, they never harvest. 

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