A completely unnecessary poem for my first love

Everyone else failed me except you,Mere machines buzzing with constant sound of self-destruction,they mortified me too, love.Their wounds opened and healed in my hands,My body clock ticks only to bring waterto deserted lands.And when these hostile beasts I’ve loved after youcome aliveto vapor their flux down on me again,I come back.You appear to be everywhere…

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Winter Tracking by Renée Francoeur

When my father saw his tundra wolfIn the winter of 1985He didn’t know it was meMuskoxenRotting purple in my bellyKrummholz treesReflecting in my pupilsWreathed in mustardFur the colour his beard would turnPlastered to the ice roadTongue turned whiteHe stopped his truck And held my headIn the middle of nothingnessNahanni’s black sprucesReaching from the shadowsThe ashen snow…

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Transfiguration by Missy Grieco

I found a notebook filled with fragments.fleshless bones,skeleton poems,stillborn fiction.I reread them,bleedings from a badly sutured year,throatless memoirmy own ragechoked by my own pen.my own thoughts shrouded, unallowed.no more.I tore each page from the spine and burned my words alive. Missy is a Cleveland poet, madly in love with words.

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The Open Field by Robert Allen

My eyes are lilies.My skin turned toflower flesh forcingsecrets straightto my bright heart.So I become a rose,flower head with no potbut field fresh and readyfor my growth. Robert Allen lives and loves with his family in northern California. In his spare time he writes poems, takes long walks, and looks at birds.

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Loitering by Sherry Shahan

I am four-years-old. Sitting on the edge of the porcelain tub while my mother paints on her cat-eyes.  It is not enough to watch her in the reflection of the tri-fold mirror. I want her to face me, to feel her arms around me, to squeeze me until bedtime. Instead, she sprays her sweeping up-do…

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Caddo by Colleen Halupa

              “George Murata found some pearls here in the lake,”  said Otis.  He burst into the bar where I was resting drinking a beer after a long day working on a gasser at Caddo Lake.             “Who the hell is George Murata?” I drawled.  I looked at Otis, his face was black with oil…

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