by Joyce James
My father in his rough denim jacket,
The front fastened against the weather
By copper buttons I thought were foreign coins,
Picks up a dead pig from the sow’s first litter
And throws it on top of a shed.
by Michael Collier
Catalogs of the burned: people, telephone poles,
steam engines, wires, pigs, horses—many horses.
And the smashed: windows, buildings, wagons, cars,
streetcars. And the screaming: children for mothers,
mothers for children, pleas for help, water, food.
by Jane Brox
A given name. It has nothing to do with their blue-green needles or their branches, their cones or fissured bark. It isn’t tied to their wintry scent. We call them white pines after the quality of their lumber—the dressed wood is the palest of all pines, close-grained, soft, and long-prized.
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