issue 55
The doe is dead, devoured by hounds. Her bones lie by the river's edge. Curled small, small is never long; her body will grow and cast away the brush that veils her. Her fair spots will fade with time. It's the sparrows that call her to run, to stretch her legs long and flee. But the fawn, she listens to the leaves whispering that it is safe to stay.
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well here I was, facing another locked drawer without a key, and not just metaphorically, although there is that. thinking more crap that you accumulated and left me to deal with; more coins, more stamps, more bills, a neatly rubber-banded bundle of Publishers Sweepstakes entries never sent in but saved because god knows why.
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I went to your memorial last Thursday
but you were not there
in your place was an old photo
you on your horse
full head of poorly cut hair
accidentally hip.
The woman spoke about energy, afterlife
and rejoining your ancestors.
While we bowed our heads
you reached into your holster
drew your revolver
and took pot shots.
If you didn't want your bronzed baby booties displayed in public
you should've mentioned it while you had the chance, cowboy.
Published in little bang, Volume 1, Number
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Cold meat covered in thin white cotton.
One foot protrudes.
Mouth agape, drools silently.
Teeth removed, stored neatly on the roll-away table.
As if you might get warm,
or wake up and need to chew.
Sourness—a look or a feeling? I'm
not sure. Mislabeled television controls.
I'll see what I can do to fix this
error.
Published in little bang, Volume 1, Number 1, 2008
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I love you, I told him
Meals on wheels didn't come 'til three o'clock
He's pissed
I love you too, he said, trying to swallow it back down
*
Rewind, thirty years:
Leisure suit and perm aside,
Dad's never changed
Trouble with women, he says, they just want to be happy
He never remarried
Thanksgiving with my Mom—Christmas with Dad
I came home after college
He was an old man
*
He reads glossy magazines
Schools me on pop culture
On his 78th birthday he asked for Moby
Though lately
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