sprovence
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J. Prinsen, Island
Jeannie Prinsen Island Nights we were young, kitchen a poolof light, we gathered snug, tethered by the woodstove’s warmth,Dad napping on the couch, Mom’s irongentling his cotton shirts. We did homework,radio low, skipped crokinole disks across the board like stones. For company we brought more chairs, spreading the circle. The whole world floated cosy in…
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C. Cottom, When You Know
Chris Cottom When You Know Your Hour Will Come and It’s Tomorrow OfficeConduct a final but cursory audit of the stationery cupboard. Ignore the tumble of staplers and erasers, the torn box of fluted paperclips, the lined pads waiting for words. Take a last tea-break with Patsy from Payroll and thank her for three decades…
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D. Kotsiopolous, Naked
Dorian Kotsiopolous Naked After my mother-in-law lost her gripin the bathtub, after the surgery to patch her fractured hip, after we moved her to the Copley nursing facility, suddenly, she loved me. She forgot that I was not of her village or religion, that I breastfed her grandchildren. She’d kick her husband out of her…
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R. Turner, Mirror
Robin Turner Mirror a golden shovel after Stevie Nicks Ohthe sound any mirrormakes. Mother’s face inmy own now, thesame clouds crowd my skymind soft with blue grey. And whatof all my impossible hungers. My mouth ismoon-round, open, still speaking what I know of love. Note: Line from “Landslide” Robin Turner’s poems, prose poems, and flash…
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A. Green, Spider Plants
Aimee Green Spider Plants In the upstairs bathroom, on the sill,is the mother. Graceful, a spillof green; leaves and stems and growth. Her children,collected by her side, pushing outwards:limbs floundering and searchingfor space to root and be.Clinging to her sleeves, protected –or protecting? She blooms, creates them allfor herself – an abundance – some so…
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J. Browne, Pseudacris crucifer
Jennifer Browne Pseudacris crucifer / Spring peeper A storm starts, flashing lightning, thunder, heavy rain, and somehow, still, I hear the chorus of peepers, think of clouds moving over the land between us. My grandmother said lightning was good for plants, would carry pots out to the porch to charge their particles. I wait for…
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D. Forrest, Domestic Gravity
Dagne Forrest Domestic Gravity For such a big creature, my dog loves to go small,loading himself gingerly into the tightest of spaces,a sleek, furred missile. Underfoot, he’ll shimmy and haulhimself over the dusty carpet. The cats’ blank facesignored as he locks into place, slips a sigh or soughat the living room’s stale entropy. Slowly, a…
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P. Landsman, Not Carl Sandburg’s Fog
Peggy Landsman Not Carl Sandburg’s Fog The fog is heavy inside me today.Imagine an elephant the size of the moon!That’s how heavy the fog.And when it lifts and lets its feet falltwo at a time, two at a time,the footprints that follow eclipse my mind’s eyes.Blindly, I finger the holes in the heavensthat let my…
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M. McGee, A Gift You Can’t Refuse
Matt McGee A Gift You Can’t Refuse The fog always settles over the street this time of night, just after 2:30 am. The neighborhood is asleep. Most won’t notice the little red Ford putter down the street, whining in a voice only a manual transmission can speak. The car is almost polite in its movement,…
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L. Hechtman Ayers, Gaze
Lana Hechtman Ayers Gaze a haibun When the moon rises above the horizon, casts its pearlescent glow, no one complains that its light is second-hand.every face you meet your own Lana Hechtman Ayers has shepherded over a hundred thirty poetry volumes into print in her role as managing editor for three small presses. Her work…