by Gary Fincke
My father, whose limp is a stutter,
Says he was born in the epidemic,
The early days, when people survived
Like expected because it was just flu.
by Alice Friman
Three-leafed, I figured it was a kind
of shamrock, but red, the color of old slaughter.
I thought of romantic Ireland dead and gone,
Maud Gonne in her grave and Yeatss tree
watered by sacrifice and blood.
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