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POETRY
Last Thursday
By Samantha McKeever Last Thursday, or at least what I remember it to be, seems all too far away. Like words that hang lifeless in suffocating air, or anger that sleeps in poorly made beds. It’s normal, really, is what they say over long phone calls in silent rooms: dialing in and out of consciousness is nothing to be concerned about. It’s just the way things are. Things, at least, feel different. Calloused, warped, faded — all the words seem empty. I suppose that’s normal, a
Samantha McKeever
Apr 242 min read
Last Thursday
By Samantha McKeever Last Thursday, or at least what I remember it to be, seems all too far away. Like words that hang lifeless in suffocating air, or anger that sleeps in poorly made beds. It’s normal, really, is what they say over long phone calls in silent rooms: dialing in and out of consciousness is nothing to be concerned about. It’s just the way things are. Things, at least, feel different. Calloused, warped, faded — all the words seem empty. I suppose that’s normal, a
Samantha McKeever
Apr 242 min read
An Unusual Time
By George Brown In Memory of Jill Brown Grandma tells me it's an unusual time. She is bruises and bone, upper lip catching on her teeth. She tells me much has become clear: She is grateful. The Lord doesn’t decide when the spirit must leave, He can only mourn, surrounded by his children. She still laughs like a penny, still remembers driving Mom barely nine months pregnant with a Goldfish on her lap to the new house, me in a car seat. She tells mom: you taught
George Brown
Apr 171 min read
Wisdom
By Rajika Bajgain I know there is no truth in the draw of the wine-dark river. I know each light on the trees is a star breathed alive by a blessing. I know your absence sweetens your memory, and that it's not your fault, nor is it mine. I know, I know, but like crystal dew on the lips of dawn the tears just fall so freely.
Rajika Rex Bajgain
Apr 101 min read
Elegy Four
after Clementine Von Radics By Julia Glazebnik The woman across the street once told us she liked a story to be sad. I like it better this way: Summer, small talk. The triangles of streetlight. How I watched your hands, their never shaking, undo the knots in mine. Everything would have been dark if not for your neck, pale in the fluorescence. Everything was still true then. All motionless, your body, mine. That day I’d watched my father take a baseball bat to a nest of w
Julia Glazebnik
Apr 31 min read
Our Winter
By George Brown Brother: Look to me – do you not see your own reflection? You know what misery is; then winter should have meaning to you. I am unlike you in this only: I do not impose on the shelter of my form, rather I lie around in its being and live that it may become my own. And what will I know of me that self disguised as matter when it becomes all there is to know; do I know your winter, brother, and if I do not, will I know the spring flood when it c
George Brown
Mar 271 min read
This Night Eternal
by Rajika Rex Bajgain No, I cannot stay the night, not for eyelashes of blonde spruce needles nor the pale-faced son of Raphael’s Madonna nor the moonlit forehead furrowed ever so slightly (what is he thinking of?); when it is over you will want it again, it is our parting that makes our togetherness sweet. You ask me now to stay the night your gentle eyes kindling up at me, to bed the stars inside our pillowcase to wed fantasy to reality to entwine your hand in my olive twig
Rajika Rex Bajgain
Mar 61 min read
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