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The Empty House

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Melissa Tuckey   Because the weight of grandmother’s death Three tables inherited from various aunts Because twelve deer grazing in a winter field Clothing worn once then tossed Because shelter, because sleep Child on the floor with a bowl of plums We loved the lack of closets The way paint on the walls could fill…


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Ed Lynskey   Call me a gravedigger. By night I shovel the moist moments away till the empty depth can hold my heart, my injured heart. Still she lies like a smirking shadow in the bottom of the black hole making me dig deeper and deeper, the grave of the lovesick fool.   Ed Lynskey…

Generosity of Attire

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Issue 38.1 Spring 2009 Rusty Morrison   You might have referred to what reconciles us, our complicitly complicated wounds. While all around us, the cloudlessness has blue as its answer. And you give it. I have no gift ready as reply. Sky, I could say, in abeyance. In abiding, but a failure might at least…

Generosity: to Quarry Stones

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Issue 38.1 Spring 2009 Rusty Morrison   I am drawing your face from memory. Leaving spaces for the stones I’ve not classified, will not find. Granite striates the outcroppings at Half Dome, this is a decade past. Pillow basalt along the Coast Range of Jenner; where either of us might have been the one falling,…

December Nights

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Susan C. Waters   A cry holds the night open— I lean forward to the window: wind rubs raw through the pines and the land is full of drifts. It’s certain no one walks there, or cries, except ghosts. The further north travelled the more difficult the measure of a night—it could be a lifetime…

For Ross Elliott, Who Lived to 97

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Susan C. Waters   Fog rises tonight. All breath levitates: from every hill, valley and all the rivers, winding and plowing through the dark night. In Ohio even the breath of an old man lifts from his shell, with as much ease as it did when he was a Coshocton country boy at the turn…


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Eric Pankey   O my God, looming and rough-hewn, Forge me with rage. If this is the purge Ferret out and scald the cold grub Burrowed in at my heart. Let havoc Consume its nest and larder. Let your gold cauter staunch the wound. Fall inviolate sledge, and be known. Blast away the sawdust and…

tribute to a giant: willie mays

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Issue 8.1 October 1978 George Mosby, Jr.   (a poem from childhood) whether he was chasing down impossible-to-catch flies and with all the grace of the mantis on the sting in slow motion catching them or rearing way back and letting go balls of crowdpleasing smoke or banging the old giants to sell-out crowds and…


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Issue 8.1 October 1978 George Mosby, Jr.   drunk on the free easy and wild spirits of pure rhythms i am in a land that has only known black feet through the silky vines that float down from the quiet-green leaves of flowers that reach into the sky i watch an antelope (with all the…

think about this

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Issue 8.1 October 1978 George Mosby, Jr.   you know she controls powers so hellish they can gather and attack as locusts would on fields but you want her you think how softly to touch her   George Mosby, Jr.’s work appeared in phoebe multiple times in the 70s, 80s, and 90s. Unfortunately, little biographical…