Category: Poetry
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On the Bridge After the Flood
by Deron Eckert A rubber duck floats down the riveralong with baby clothes and toys,a left behind walker since there is nowalking on water, and God knows what elsesince you can’t bear to see people’s livesrushed away in the flash of a floodthat you’ll never understand if you haven’tlived though one or did what you…
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Bike Route, Minneapolis
by Joanne Esser Below street level I look up at familiar buildings that have grown Four stories, windows dark, cool inside, concealing business of the city. Along the edges, patches of red, orange, yellow with secret black hearts. Painted blossoms rise enormous above real ones as if they’re sisters. Sparrows hop…
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Everytime I Pass This I Wonder What Happens
by Robin Gow Along Route 29 I have seen a dead self standing on the side of the roadlooking for a ride home. I keep going. There was a moment when this farm was vacated.When a body grabbed all her bones and disappeared. Then the ghosts came. The thing about death is thatit is not…
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La Sonnanbula
by Dale Going Disinclined to dredge up the old efflorescence, my heart, a relatively lucky bauble, operated this trenchant December independent of drenched weather less photogenic than snow. Awakened in whether nor’wester by the Bay’s first-ever tornado warning, we wafted through the cellarless house like Balanchine’s La Sonnambula searching for safe ground: pirouetting remnants of…
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Logan
by Nick Visconti Here is the river no one owns, claimedby runoff sediments innervatingfloodplains. I look north and see jets,international, kipping above the clouds,banking on ground-level trust, the pilotshave eyes good enough to count seeds,the absurd amount of seeds lemons house,or the thread counts of a motel’s bed sheets.I’m here to search, and it only…
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Ask Me and I’ll Tell You
by Annie Przypyszny about the woman who lives in an open grave. She’s not crazy. She’s versed in Edith Wharton, Emily Post, the final poems of Keats. Her Anne Klein dress is only slightly soiled, only a tad moth- nibbled. The oak leaves in her hair appear intentional. She adorns her rich brown walls with…
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Ampoule
by Angie Macri Race through the language, a circuit of lawslike men hunting for brides, rosein their teeth. Girls line up in white, bits of bonefitted as hourglass. The sand runsuntil it’s done. They cast their fathers’ names asideand take the new, covered by the title, Mrs.now. They never have to use their own name…
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Home in the Hurricane
By Sarah Spaulding Avento I open my body to you. Half-eaten Jack – o -lantern a smile tilts through the cracks. The fans buzz and you say it’s too early to think of fall. Just this morning a tropical storm. Houseplants weeping. The skin of our house lashed. My car stopped in the middle of…