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From Austen Lee:

April 15, 2019

Seal yourself
in the cooler.
Pluck stamens till
your palms stain orange,
become the texture
of wax.

Rehearse your lines
like a prayer:

take care.
take care.
take care.

– Customer Service Voice, from poetry is dead‘s issue 19: drama


From Ann-Bernice Thomas

April 12, 2019

you begged his forgiveness after you devoured his mercy,
praying stains.

praying strays.

poetry is biblical,
in the misuse of its remains.

– on theatre and poetry, from poetry is dead‘s issue 19: drama

From Mary O’Donnell:

April 9, 2019

Mary McCabe, of Derrynashallog,
who cared for her husband’s mother in dotage,
fed ten children,
the youngest still at the breast during hay-making.

Mary Conlon, Tullyree,
who wrote poems at night.

Assumpta Meehan, Tonygarvey,
saw many visions and was committed to the asylum.

Martha McGinn, of Emy,
who swam Cornamunden Lough in one hour and a quarter.

Unlegendary Heroes

From Natalie Eilbert:

April 1, 2019

It is okay to bear. My apartment hums in a Rilke sense.
A pain blooms. I am told that it’s okay to forego details
of what happened. I am told it doesn’t matter now.
I want to write sentences for days. I want days to not
be a sentence. We put men in boxes and sail them away.
Justice gave me an amber necklace. I tried to swallow
as many as I could.

Let Everything Happen to You

From Lyrae Van Clief-Stefanon:

March 30, 2019

pretty’s just armor
something else

to wear like a dress or a name
not magic like skin

apparel apparent apparently
repellant pretty
don’t draw

flies like
honey we just pretend

it does


From Agha Shahid Ali:

March 26, 2019

A hurricane is born when the wings flutter …
Where will the butterfly, on my wrist, land?

You made me wait for one who wasn’t even there
though summer had finished in that tourist land.

Do the blind hold temples close to their eyes
when we steal their gods for our atheist land?

Abandoned bride, Night throws down her jewels
so Rome—on our descent—is an amethyst land.


From Catherine Staples:

March 23, 2019

As in green, vert, a royal demesne
stocked with deer. Invert as in tipped
as a snow globe, going nowhere in circles
but not lost, not bereft as the wood
without deer, waiting for the white antlered
buck, or his does, or any slim yearling
to step along the berm, return.


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