Member since December 5, 2011 | 0 Readings |
Subscribed by Liz Gerber
A Pysanka for My Mother’s Poetry Book
It kept the table steady, her marbled / notebook filled with poems. / The pages go blank a few months / after I was born, when the uneven / dining…
Lloyd as Quasimodo
You possess a loneliness / that seems to fight for itself, Lloyd, / like some old dog running to the woods / a too cold winter night and all …
Shooting Below the School Building
Holy is the muzzle-flash, the blood-speck / on my thumb’s knuckle where my hand met / / the gun’s recoil above hoof and paw prints / tracing…
Existential Crisis after Lightning Fire
God isn’t what I’m looking for / in singe marks on hollowed trees / / or barbwire limp between lodgepoles / like some lifeless snake hung as…
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