by Robert Wrigley
Old two–hearted sadness, old blight
in the bones, the history of sugar
and the daily syringe, show tunes,
Shalimar, car after car after car.
by Kate Wheeler
It’s been two years since I left Pingyan Monastery, but every time my head itches I still think it’s that ringworm. It was the blind cat’s fault, or mine for getting distracted and feeding her and having a special feeling about her, as if her eyes full of blank green fire could see something beyond what there was—white stucco walls stained with red mud from the monsoon, beautiful brown people walking slowly up and down, meditating. Dust, mud, garbage, jasmine. Every single thing, different from here.
by David Wojahn
Too far off, too faded: we do not see
The eyes beneath the helmet’s shadow, cast
Like a veil against his face, angling vertically
To his arm, which clutches a Wehrmacht prisoner’s epaulette.
by Deborah Schupack
I tell my mother I’m staying home from school because I feel like someone took out my bones and put in shirt cardboard instead.
“That’s the flu,” she says. “I hate to leave you alone when you have the flu. Oh, Bethy, I hate this job. I hate your father.”
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