Tag: 49.2

The Shape of Grief

Alyssa Quinn In the doctor’s office, a woman describes the shape of her pain.  “There is a hard pillar inside of me,” she says. “Cylindrical. Metallic. It stretches from the pit of my...

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The Duck Walk

Erica Plouffe Lazure I am a known heretic in these parts because I mow the lawn on Sundays. I can feel my neighbor’s eyes on my back on the Lord’s Day as I maneuver through my special, signature...

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Oil Painting of a Hand Holding a Taxidermied Bluebird

Gustav Parker Hibbett Greg Grummer Poetry Contest Runner Up, 2020 Center-right: wings invisible, pinned like buttoned fronts of jackets around a rigid waxdrop body; small-clawed feet fixed or glued...

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MACHINE

Jake Bauer Greg Grummer Poetry Contest Winner 2020 I’d been all morningtrying to fix thisdamn thing. I was aimingto finally nail downthe symbolic.The field by the airportwalked right into...

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Manhunt

Kira Homsher Contest Winner Beyond the backyard of my childhood home, through a thicket of trees, across the field and down the street was the white-paneled house where the Hartmann family lived. Two...

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Funerals

Robert Bausch “…Anything makes me laugh, I misbehaved once at a funeral.” –Charles Lamb He could hear the people in the church praying. So many voices carried a long way and he could...

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Rapture

Mary Jo Amani Pay careful attention lest with all the fluctuations of thoughts the greening power which you have from God dries up in you. ­—Hildegard von Bingen writing to an Abbot 1 I bought an...

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Virginia Is Not Your Home

Jocelyn Johnson They hung that name on you at birth, but Virginia was never your home. Read Nausea by Sartre and give yourself a new one. Trumpet your new name to the liver-spotted washroom mirror,...

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manifesto for the bones of a blue whale suspended from the ceiling

Kathryne David Gargano the boy says: devils cannot move human semen locally! he cries it in the streets, flogginghis papers / so sensational, this boy— he forgets so earnestly the way womenare born...

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Recrudescence

Annie Lampman A single person is missing for you, and the whole world is empty. —Philippe Ariès I. May 19, 1980: grey ash falling like a dirty, late spring snowstorm in northern Idaho, shuttering...

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