Latest Writing
POETRY
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Reprise by Kathleen Hellen
Reflex. Automatic. My son with that look when I slapped him. Something in the genes, the violence of pathways reenacting: biologies of caterwaul of bottle-fights of fists into the wall. I saw Mother with her twin colossals jug-drunk dancing jigs.
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PERSISTENT DESIGN by Nate Pritts
Wasps keep circling the shutters, long stalks of grass dangling from thin back legs, and when they crawl between the slats into the small dark, they bring their greeny materials with them. There is nothing here you can’t leave.
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FIRST WINTER by Hala Alyan
Our bodies are urns full of rain, spilling during the harvest. The elders speak of clemency. The army marches on. We watch them across the ocean, speak their undead name in our sleep.
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