by Paul Willis Issue: Spring/Summer 2020

The nursery at the foot of the hill
does not sell privet—it sells pribet.
As if the hedge were a croaking frog

in a bend of the ribber.  Eberything
I know suggests they hab got it wrong, 
but I pay cash for my fibe-gallon bucket

of pribet, dribe home, dig a bery deep 
dibot in the earth, plant it firmly,
and lib happily eber after.  The end. 

Paul Willis

Paul Willis is a professor of English at Westmont College in Santa Barbara, California.  He has published six collections of poetry, the most recent of which are Deer at Twilight: Poems from the North Cascades (Stephen F. Austin State University Press, 2018) and Little Rhymes for Lowly Plants (White Violet Press, 2019).  He is also the author of an eco-fantasy novel, The Alpine Tales (WordFarm, 2010), and of the essay collections Bright Shoots of Everlastingness (WordFarm, 2005) and To Build a Trail (WordFarm, 2018).