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POETRY
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STRANGE GOSPELS by Cynthia Cruz
I was locked in the linen closet, lost In ruffles of gingham tatters and my sky Bleached hair. I wore the Paper crown. I wore the flimsy red Tiara. I let them Pin them wings on me. The palace, I say, is burning.
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THE ANGELS by Maria Hummel
They have not come for you. They will not blister the day with light and swords. The room remains a room, and not a portal. The syringes hold no messages, not even plain emptiness. The food trays, when you eat food, rattle if I move them, and, if left alone,
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DEAR SUBURB, by David Roderick
Some blunt hammering set me off, that and the teeth of a saw. I left behind my sweater, the remains of a sandwich, my camera, some paperweights, my lament. I left behind a few weak coals I’d blown alive.
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