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Poetry

The Beginning

There were fifteen of us in a van filled with desert wind. The redhead next to me had anxiety attacks and wanted a baby, now. I swore I would see…

Poetry | December 2003 | By Patricia Caspers


Pushing 7 1/2, Falling into 8

Tonight, we lie on his bed and he cries, “I’m ugly.” And I try to hold him, try to rock him, but he’s all new, with his long arms and…

Poetry | December 2003 | By Vicki Whicker


The Quickening

Underneath my layers a flutter of wings un fruscio d’ali gentle knock of wind butterflies sing your baby knuckles tapping on my skin.

Poetry | December 2003 | By Edvige Giunta


Mothers Song

The mourning after he left was long and insistent draping itself over every load of laundry and unlaced shoe surfacing in half-drunk cups of tepid tea and resting in uninterrupted…

Poetry | December 2003 | By Ruth Walker


The Beginnings of Rain

One day I stopped trying, frying, and buying goods for the house. I stepped back from countertops, let the crumbs wilt, and listened from behind walls to the sounds of…

Poetry | December 2003 | By Cassie Premo Steele


Visiting My Daughter, an Exchange Student in Spain

Of course, I believe that in this land, where storks nesting in chimneys guarantee a family good luck, she will be unchanged: eighteen, still with skinny wrists, blond hair that…

Poetry | December 2003 | By Suellen Wedmore


To the Woman Who Left Her Old Age To Someone Older Than She Will Ever Be

On the day I finally outlive your days, I’ll wake to leaf fire, sunlight, peeling eucalyptus and room enough to drown in. But I’ll still float above your kitchen-talk in…

Poetry | December 2003 | By Ruth Daigon


Dream of the Night Key

eyes closed in the arc,               key of night’s                chalkboard –               the arc…

Poetry | November 2003 | By Liz Henry


My Middle Daughter, on the Edge of Adolescence, Learns to Play the Saxophone

Her hair, that halo of red gold curls, has thickened, coarsened, lost its baby fineness, and the sweet smell of childhood that clung to her clothes has just about vanished.…

Poetry | November 2003 | By Barbara Crooker


Four a.m.

Why is it the things you never think about at four in the afternoon consume you at 4 a.m.? For instance why am I lying here just after the newspaper…

Poetry | November 2003 | By Martha Silano


Morgans

I turn to ask Morgan, my six-year-old, to stop chewing on his shirt, and he asks me for the car keys, and I wake up on the floor next to…

Poetry | November 2003 | By Svea Barrett


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