by Eric Pankey
The crow, the gleaming crow,
Withholds its one thorny note,
A note that can rip a seam
Through the mildewed canvas of dusk.
by Michael Hollister
Up in the mountains of the Umatilla reservation, Charlie Rimbeau got word that Tom Feroz had to see him right away. Billy Wild Horse and his brothers gave him a ride down the mountain in their pickup; he sat in the back with his pack between his legs, gazing out over the fields on the high plateau below, trying to imagine how it looked as grassy open space and grazing herds of antelope.
by Dick Allen
Nothing was said until the house grew dark
And a fishnet of stars was cast upon its windows.
In the tall bedroom mirror, the door to Watergate
Opened again. A helicopter tiny as a moth
Flew across the lovers’ flanks, its slow pinwheel blades
Making the sound of grief and churning rivers.
by Deborah Tall
The dead are taking over my address book,
their phone numbers ringing off the hook
into thin air—air: what God is made of
says my daughter . . .
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