Tag: From the archive
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IOWA by Stephen Berg
When I think of it now I still see just how ugly and dirty the place was, what a bare unprotected monk-like life it was that year, living first in the old tire warehouse on the outskirts of town, no toilet or sink, no furniture, nothing except two ratty mattresses, fruit crates…
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Three Poems by Sam Sax
I.35 i watch him touch him self over a screen and pretend it is with my hands how you pull a quiver from an arrow. he moans and i grow jealous of the satellites.
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Maps by Patrick Lawler
“Who was it who decided on where Tallahassee should be?” Toby asks questions, and we laugh a lot. Stupid things really. But it makes you think, and it helps to pass the time. He takes the money when people pump their gas, and I do most of the other things, like brake jobs, tires, and…
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Three Poems by Collier Nogues
MISSISSIPPI I know forgetting myself is a good thing, the best loss. The trees look soft in the fog’s distance, egg-colored light all over them. Even the sheep, eggy. The earth dries in ribs the rain has drawn on it.
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BATHING WITH FRIDA by Wesley Rothman
With a cigarette between my fingers and flowers bound up in her hair dry morning bathes us in the claw-foot tub. Asphyxiation by drowning. This dawn welcomes us to another side. Every bird lies
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Story About a Woman I Used to Know by Jozefina Cutura
Milena always reminded me of a backdrop to a bleak landscape, a woman unlikely to arouse much conscious consideration, though she hovered around like an uncertain but inescapable future punishment. She popped in and out of our lives at random, insignificant moments. There was, for instance, that typically drab October afternoon in Frankfurt.
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Three Poems by Melissa Ginsburg
THE JOB Not being stupid I took what was offered: the job was waiting and I did it with sand and mirrors, in glitter while I paced. I waited, I fell in love with waiting …
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Two Poems by Yona Harvey
GINGIVITIS, NOTES ON FEAR I hesitate invoking that doubled emptiness: open— my daughter’s mouth in the bathroom mirror— not her first vanity but first blood inkling she tastes & smoothes with her tongue.
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Foul Mouth by Devin Murphy
For the last hundred miles, Brooks’ ten-year-old son, Adler, had been yelling profanities out the window. It started during a break from driving. To stretch their legs they jogged down a rural road along the wire fence separating the pavement from endless rolling hills of grazing land.
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ANTIPHON FOR THE OFFICE OF THE DEAD by William Kelley Woolfitt
a powder box and swans-down puff her limp stocking, a green satin fan spangled with dragonflies, curling-tongs small muslin bags, a pumice stone bits of skin, cut-glass bottles, cuticle knife, a darner, nail powder, sealing wax spirals of her hair, glove buttoner orangewood stick, gauze balls, shoe lift velvet brush, rabbit’s foot, pots of rouge…
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DOLOROSA by Molly Rose Quinn
(The Chapel at St. Mary’s School for Girls) where the pillar falls at the edge of morning the teachers beg us to tug down our skirts they offer their palms for our gumballs and your god is here to say that beauty is easy like cutting teeth and your legs and your legs and yours…
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ROSA by Anne Germanacos
Just a name Rosa, a girl in a story, a name I happen to like. She’s a girl with a father who follows her to the ends of the earth as she follows a story, a myth, an incantation. She is trying to be a virgin and a diplomat, like Gertrude Bell. She would also…