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 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.”
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 Gary Fincke
Let us explain, the church said, the mystery
Of the inexplicable bones. One: God ran tests,
What did we think? There’s always waste—to get
Eden right, He had to fail a thousand times, . . .
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