poetry

Poetry. Grown-ups, by DS Maolalai. Image: A barbecue with miniature adults, children and assorted garden objects having a barbecue on the grill.

poetry: Babylonia

Babylonia I am as close to the start as I am to the end. So these are my instructions. And I can’t hear you, anywhere. And weather takes place in the home. Smudge glass to gaze through glass. Clean every view. Grow root crops, quiet, in the garden. Keep an empty-ish glade, snot-toned pollen, a

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Poetry. Grown-ups, by DS Maolalai. Image: A barbecue with miniature adults, children and assorted garden objects having a barbecue on the grill.

poetry: Grown-ups

Grown-ups drinking with friends – a barbecue in may. it’s the first summer weekend since we got the back garden to host in. meat moist as soap on a plate by the grill. I laid it out. we bought too many sausages stickered in lidl and cheap. and too many cheap beers – people always

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Poetry: Citrus, by Sara Eddy. Image: a cross-section of a slice of orange. In each segment are mothers and daughters at differing stages of life.

poetry: Epiphany

Epiphany [not in the sense manifestation of Christ to Gentiles as represented by Magi (Matthew 2:1-12)] Despite Jewish law’s at least soft prohibition as a physician plus human I’ve been all-in about end of life thoughtful autonomy for those of us who are considered to have terminal ills. But since around block witness to state-certified

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Poetry: Citrus, by Sara Eddy. Image: a cross-section of a slice of orange. In each segment are mothers and daughters at differing stages of life.

poetry: Citrus

Citrus My friend often stops by at lunch to talk about our kids–how hard it is and how lovely. It usually happens, because I love them, that I’m eating an orange, or a mandarin,  Sumo, blood orange, temple–one of that whole  bodacious family of juicy mamas, and I separate  a section or two bursting with

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Poetry. Cotquean, by Christopher Jones. Image: a pair of boxing gloves suspended from a knitting needle and thread. In the gloves, the silhouette of a man and his son.

poetry: Cotquean

Cotquean I’m sewing up tears in my boxing gear: a needle, black thread and bachelor stitches. I’m cross-legged on the bathroom floor while Pharaoh splashes in the tub beside me, a pink and laughing treasure two years long. I ran his bath, undressed his happy body. Now I wash his hair, speak quietly through the

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